:: 


r*r*ir^/\!  5 

SPROUt  -hMLL  Llonnr 


POEMS   OF  GEORGE   ELIOT. 


"  TJEDALMA      ENTERED,     CAST     AWAY 

"          THE   CLOUD 
OF     SERGE      AND      LINEN,      AND,      OUT 

BEAMING  BRIGHT, 

ADVANCED  A    PACE    TOWARDS   SILVAN 
Photogravure.  From  fainting  by  W.  St.  John  Harper. 


The  Complete  Works 

of 

George  Eliot 


POEMS 

VOLUME    I 
ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK   AND    LONDON 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS 


SRLP 

UP/  ;     A  PR 


2Dear 

EVERY  DAY  DEARER 
HUSBAND. 


Ai 

viol 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET 1 

EXTRACTS  PROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE 15 

THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.    BOOK  I 25 

THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.    BOOK  II 148 

THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.    BOOK  III.  ,  196 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

VOL.  I. 

"  FBDALHA  ENTERED,  CAST  AWAY  THE  CLOUD  OF  SERGE 
AND  LINEN,  AND,  OUTBEAMING  BRIGHT,  ADVANCED 
A  PACE  TOWARDS  SILVA  "  (p.  88) Frontispiece 

"  A     FIGURE      LITHE,    ALL     WHITE     AND     SAFFRON-ROBED, 

FLASHED   RIGHT  ACROSS   THE    CIRCLE  "         ....        Page  70 

MY  FATHER  .  .  .  COMES  ...  MY  FATHER 124 

"  AY,  'T  is   A  SWORD  THAT   PARTS  THE  SPANISH  NOBLE 

AND   THE    TRUE    ZlNCALA  "     .  232 


GEOEGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET. 


(From  the  Contemporary  Review,  vol.  viii.  p.  397.) 

As  if  a  strong,  delightful  water  that  we  knew  only 
as  a  river  appeared  in  the  character  of  a  fountain ; 
as  if  one  whom  we  had  wondered  at  as  a  good 
walker  or  inexhaustible  pedestrian,  began  to  dance ; 
as  if  Mr.  Bright,  in  the  middle  of  a  public  meeting, 
were  to  oblige  the  company  with  a  song,  —  no,  no, 
not  like  that  exactly,  but  like  something  quite  new, 
—  is  the  appearance  of  George  Eliot  in  the  character 
of  a  poet.  "  The  Spanish  Gypsy,"  a  poem  in  five 
books,  originally  written,  as  a  prefatory  note  informs 
us,  in  the  winter  of  1864-65,  and,  after  a  visit  to 
Spain  in  1867,  re-written  and  amplified,  is  before  us. 
It  is  a  great  volume  of  three  hundred  and  fifty 
octavo  pages;  and  the  first  thing  which  strikes 
the  reader  is,  that  it  is  a  good  deal  longer  than  he 
expected  it  would  be.  This  is  bad,  to  begin  with. 
What  right  has  anybody  to  make  a  poem  longer 
than  one  expected  ?  The  next  thing  that  strikes 
one  is,  —  at  all  events,  the  next  thing  that  struck 
me  was,  as  I  very  hastily  turned  over  the  book,  — 
that  the  fine  largo  of  the  author's  manner,  con- 
tinued through  so  many  pages,  was  a  very  little 
burdensome  in  its  effect.  That  may  come  of  the 
specific  levity  of  my  taste ;  but  it  is  as  well  to  be 
quite  frank. 

VOL.  I I 


2  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Dr.  Holmes,  of  Boston,  says  —  I  fear  I  am  re- 
peating myself,  as  he  did  with  his  illustration  of  the 
alighting  huma —  that  a  poem  is  like  a  violin  in 
the  respect  that  it  needs  to  be  kept  and  used  a  good 
deal  before  you  know  what  music  there  is  in  it.  If 
that  is  so,  what  may  here  be  said  of  George  Eliot's 
poem  will  have  but  little  value ;  for  the  book  has 
only  been  in  my  hand  a  few  days,  at  a  time  when 
my  preoccupation  is  great,  and  reading  is  painful  to 
me.  But,  in  the  first  place,  I  do  really  think  my 
hasty  impressions  are  correct  in  this  case;  and,  in 
the  second,  I  shall  find  some  way  of  returning  to  the 
book,  if  after  very  often-repeated  readings  (according 
to  my  habit)  I  alter  any  of  my  opinions. 

In  the  Argosy  I  once  gave  reasons  for  looking 
forward  with  deep  interest  to  anything  George  Eliot 
might  do  in  the  shape  of  poetry,  and  also  hinted 
the  direction  in  which  her  risk  of  greater  or  less 
failure  appeared  to  me  to  lie.  "You  can  never 
reckon  up  these  high-strung  natures,  ever  ready  to 
be  re-impregnated,"  or  tell  what  surprises  they  may 
have  in  store  for  you.  It  had  often  struck  me  that 
there  was  a  vein  of  poetic  expression  in  the  writing 
of  George  Eliot,  of  which  a  hundred  instances  might 
have  been  given.  But  the  question  of  questions 
remained :  Had  she  such  a  power,  not  to  say  neces- 
sity, of  spontaneous  expression  in  verse,  that  when 
we  saw  her  poetry  we  should  inevitably  say,  as 
Milton  said  of  himself,  that  the  expression  in 
verse  was  the  right-hand  speech,  that  in  prose 
the  left-hand  speech  ?  How  fine  are  the  shades 
or  gradations  of  quality  in  this  repect,  can  be  little 
understood  by  those  who  have  not,  by  instinct  or 
otherwise,  fed,  so  to  speak,  on  verse.  For  example, 
we  all  know  that  Wordsworth  often  wrote,  in  the 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET.  3 

printed  form  of  verse,  the  most  utterly  detestable 
prose.  Yet  he  could  and  did  produce  most  exquisite 
verse.  Again,  a  living  poet  of  the  school  of  Words- 
worth, Mr.  Henry  Taylor,  barely,  or  little  better 
than  barely,  enables  us  to  say  of  him  that  verse  is 
his  right-hand  and  prose  his  left.  Still,  after  some 
little  demur,  we  are  able  to  say  it;  and  we  call 
him  a  poet. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  this  is  by  any 
means  a  matter  of  mere  fluency,  correctness,  or  ease 
of  numbers.  Macaulay  wrote  verses  far  superior  in 
these  particulars  to  many  of  Mr.  Henry  Taylor's  and 
many  of  Wordsworth's.  Yet  verse  was,  unequivo- 
cally, Macaulay's  left-hand ;  and  after  adolescence, 
few  people  can  read  his  verse  for  poetry.  If  I  were 
not  unwilling  to  rouse  the  prejudice  of  (I  fear ! ) 
most  of  my  readers,  I  should  here  add  Edgar  Poe ; 
and,  indeed,  I  really  cannot  spare  him  as  an  illus- 
tration. He  must  have  some  queer  hybrid  place, 
all  to  himself  (which  it  would  take  an  essay  to  de- 
fine) ;  but  though  he  may  be  said  to  have  felt  verse 
his  right-hand  medium  of  expression,  some  few  of  us 
hesitate  to  call  him  a  poet.  Not  to  complicate  this 
matter,  let  us  come  at  once  to  the  point.  What  is 
it  that  in  excellent  verse  differentiates l  that  which 
is  poetry  and  that  which  is  not  ?  Not  mere  flu- 
ency, but  unconscious  fluency ;  in  a  word,  simplicity. 
Whatever  art  may  do  for  the  poet,  he  must  be  a 
simple  musician  to  begin  with. 

In  looking  rapidly  over  this  poem  of  George  Eliot's 
I  have  —  let  me  confess  it  —  I  have  been  inclined 
to  fear  that  this  "  note  "  of  simplicity  is  wanting. 
And,  in  spite  of  an  abundance  of  fine  passages,  I 

1  I  have  seen  this  word  objected  to  as  a  scientific  foppery ;  but  in 
its  form  of  to  difference,  the  verb  is  a  good  old  English  verb. 


4  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

fear,  also,  there  is  not  the  perfect  fluency  of  use  and 
wont.  It  has  been  maintained,  under  shelter  of 
Elizabethan  models,  that  you  may  do  almost  any- 
thing in  dramatic  blank  verse,  in  the  way  of  length- 
ening and  shortening  the  line.  I  object  to  the 
doctrine,  and  maintain  that  the  Elizabethan  ex- 
amples cited  are,  in  many  instances,  mere  bits  of 
negligence ;  and,  in  others,  roughnesses  of  work- 
manship belonging  to  the  lusty  youth  of  a  new  art. 
Blank  verse  means  ten-syllable  iambic  lines.  If 
there  are  deviations  from  this  form,  as  there  often 
are,  and  should  be,  they  must  be  regulated  devia- 
tions, not  accidental  intrusions  of  other  forms.  .  .  , 
The  versification  of  "  The  Spanish  Gypsy "  often 
breaks  out  into  the  very  highest  excellence ;  but  it 
too  often  wants  spontaneity  and  simplicity. 

As  the  same  observation  applies  to  the  lyrics,  one 
has  little  hesitation  in  coming  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  primal  peculiarity  which  distinguishes  the 
singer  from  the  sayer  is  either  lacking  in  George 
Eliot  or  that  its  function  has  suffered  from  disuse. 
I  still  hesitate  to  say  suffered  irreparably,  because 
I  still  think  the  orbit  of  a  genius  like  George  Eliot's 
incalculable.  With  such  a  noble  ambition,  and  such 
immense  resources,  one  may  do  almost  anything. 
Thus,  though  I  confess  I  now  think  it  improbable 
that  George  Eliot  will  ever  exhibit  in  a  poem  the 
true  simplicity  of  the  singer,  and  compel  her  readers 
to  admit  that  her  music  is  better  than  her  speech, 
I  hesitate,  or  well-nigh  hesitate,  in  saying  even  so 
much  as  that.  It  is  very  pathetic  that  a  noble 
ambition  should  come  so  near  its  mark  and  yet  fail. 
Only  what  are  we  to  do?  The  truth  must  be 
spoken. 

Against  the  presumption  raised  by  the  bulk  of 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET.  5 

the  writing  must,  in  fairness,  be  set  the  evidence  of 
particular  passages,  in  which  the  author  attains 
such  high  excellence  that  if  one  had  seen  those 
passages  alone,  there  would  have  been  no  hesitation 
or  doubt  on  the  score  of  melody.  A  few  of  these, 
in  some  of  which  the  reader  will  catch  fine  touches 
of  Elizabethan  inspiration,  I  will  pick  out  of  the 
mass. 

Take,  for  an  example,  this  description  of  Zarca :  — 

"  He  is  of  those 

Who  steal  the  keys  from  snoring  Destiny 
And  make  the  prophets  lie." 

And  this:  — 

"  My  vagabonds  are  a  seed  more  generous, 
Quick  as  the  serpent,  loving  as  the  hound, 
And  beautiful  as  disinherited  gods. 
They  have  a  promised  land  beyond  the  sea." 

And  this:  — 

"  Spring  afternoons,  when  delicate  shadows  fall 
Pencilled  upon  the  grass  ;  high  summer  morns 
When  white  light  rains  upon  the  quiet  sea 
And  cornfields  flush  with  ripeness." 

And  this :  — 

"  Present  and  silent  and  unchangeable 
As  a  celestial  portent." 

Lastly,  the  best  lyric  in  the  poem :  — 

"  The  world  is  great:  the  birds  all  fly  from  me, 
The  stars  are  golden  fruit  upon  a  tree 
All  out  of  reach:  my  little  sister  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 

"  The  world  is  great :  I  tried  to  mount  the  hill 
Above  the  pines,  where  the  light  lies  so  still, 
But  it  rose  higher  :  little  Lisa  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 


6  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

"The  world  is  great :  the  wind  comes  rushing  by, 
I  wonder  where  it  comes  from ;  sea-birds  cry 
And  hurt  my  heart ;  my  little  sister  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 

"  The  world  is  great :  the  people  laugh  and  talk, 
And  make  loud  holiday  :  how  fast  they  walk! 
I  'm  lame,  they  push  me  :  little  Lisa  went, 
And  I  ana  lonely." 

Besides  the  want  of  spontaneity  and  simplicity  in 
the  verse,  there  are  other  points  which  make  us  feel, 
with  whatever  reluctance  to  admit  the  thing  we 
undoubtingly  see,  that  in  "The  Spanish  Gypsy" 
something  is  wanting,  and  in  that  something  every- 
thing that  endears  a  poem  as  a  poem.  The  writing 
has  the  diffuseness  of  literature  rather  than  the 
condensation  of  poetry ;  and,  admirable  as  some  of 
it  is,  we  wish  it  away:  at  the  lowest,  we  say  to 
ourselves,  if  a  poet  had  had  to  utter  this,  our 
pleasure  would  have  been  perfect ;  but,  as  it  is,  what 
is  before  us  is  almost  too  good,  and  yet  it  is  not  good 
enough ;  it  does  not  compel  us  to  think,  le  poete  a  le 
frisson,  either  while  we  read  or  afterwards.  There 
is  too  much  aggregation  and  accumulation  about 
it ;  we  are  set  thinking,  and  set  feeling ;  we  are  agi- 
tated ;  but  we  are  not  thrilled  by  any  single  sud- 
den notes.  •  Lastly,  or  all  but  lastly,  some  of  the 
frequent  touches  of  humorous  detail  are  fatal:  — 

"  Enter  the  Duke,  Pablo,  and  Annibal, 
Exit  the  cat,  retreating  towards  the  dark." 

This,  and  all  this  kind  of  thing,  is  gravely  wrong  in 
a  poem.  In  some  cases  the  phraseology  has  this 
species  of  modern  familiarity  and  curtness ;  in  oth- 
ers, the  equally  distinguishable  largo  of  the  modern 
philosophic  manner,  while  what  is  supremely  needed, 
namely,  finish,  is  what  we  in  vain  go  longing  for. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET.  7 

Finally,  the  intellectual  groundwork,  or  outline, 
of  the  poem  shows  far  too  plainly  under  the  colouring 
of  passion  and  the  movement  of  the  story.  Since 
"Silas  Marner"  we  have  had  no  book  from  George 
Eliot  to  which  this  criticism  would  not,  in  some 
degree,  be  applicable.  There  is  not  room  here  for 
any  exhibition  of  all  the  recurring  ideas  of  George 
Eliot's  writings,  but  one  in  particular  has  been 
growing  more  and  more  prominent  since  "  Silas 
Marner,"  and  of  which  the  first  hint  is  in  "The 
Mill  on  the  Floss."  "  If  the  past  is  not  to  bind  us," 
said  Maggie  Tulliver,  in  answer  to  the  importunities 
of  Stephen  Guest,  "  what  is  ? "  In  a  noticeable  and 
well-remembered  review  of  Mr.  Lecky's  "History  of 
nationalism,"  George  Eliot  told  us  that  the  best 
part  of  our  lives  was  made  up  of  organized  traditions 
(I  quote  from  memory,  but  the  meaning  was  plain). 
Putting  these  two  things  together,  we  get  the  intel- 
lectual ground-plan  of  "  The  Spanish  Gypsy."  Per- 
haps the  illustrious  author  of  the  poem  would 
resent  the  idea  that  any  moral  was  intended  to  be 
conveyed  by  her  recent  writings ;  but,  assuredly, 
this  moral  is  thrust  upon  us  everywhere,  in  a  way 
which  implies,  if  not  intention,  very  eager  belief. 

Leaving  the  workmanship  and  the  intellectual 
conception,  or  interwoven  moral  criticism,  of  the 
poem,  and  coming  to  the  story,  I  am  sure  of  only 
echoing  what  all  the  world  will  say  when  I  call 
this  in  the  highest  degree  poetic;  and  poetically 
dramatic,  too.  I  must  add,  and  with  emphasis,  that 
the  story  seems  to  me  to  gain,  as  a  story,  by  this 
mode  of  presentation,  —  as  I  firmly  believe  "Eo- 
mola  "  would  have  gained,  if  the  question  of  perfect 
poetic  expression  could  have  been  got  over.  In 
other  words,  although  the  manner  of  the  novelist 


8  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

too  often  obtrudes  itself  in  "  The  Spanish  Gypsy," 
the  author  has  told  the  story  more  affectingly,  and 
with  much  more  of  truthfulness  and  local  colour 
and  manner,  than  she  would  have  done  if  she  had 
been  writing  it  as  a  novel.  Compare,  for  example, 
what  I  think  are  among  the  very  finest  things  George 
Eliot  has  ever  done,  —  the  scene  between  Juan  the 
troubadour  and  the  Gypsy  girls,  at  the  opening  of 
Book  III.,  and  the  scene  in  which  Don  Amador 
reads  to  the  retainers  of  Don  Silva  from  "  Las  Siete 
Partidas  "  the  passage  beginning,  "  Et  esta  gentileza 
aviene  en  tres  maneras "  (the  critical  reader  who 
stumbles  at  the  "  et "  must  be  informed  that  this  is 
thirteenth-century  Spanish),  —  compare  these  two 
scenes,  I  say,  with  the  first  scene  in  the  barber's 
shop,  and  the  scene  of  the  Florentine  joke,  in 
"Eomola,"  and  note  how  very  much  the  author 
gains  by  assuming  the  dramatic  form.  I  have  heard 
readers  of  much  critical  ability,  and  much  poetic 
and  dramatic  instinct,  too,  complain  that  they  did 
not  see  the  force  of  those  scenes  in  "  Eomola ; "  but 
it  must  be  an  incredibly  dull  person  that  misses  the 
force  of  those  scenes  in  "  The  Spanish  Gypsy."  The 
love-passages,  also,  are  exquisitely  beautiful;  and 
in  them  again  the  author  has  gained  by  using  the 
dramatic  form.  I  dare  to  add  that  she  has,  how- 
ever, lost  by  some  of  the  (so  to  speak)  "stage- 
directions."  We  don't  want  to  be  told  how  a  man 
and  woman  of  the  type  of  Don  Silva  and  Fedalma l 
look  when  they  are  saying  certain  things.  We 
can  feel  pretty  sure  when  the  moment  would  be  too 

1  I  do  not  remember  having  ever  seen  this  name  before ;  it  is  an 
exquisitely  musical  word,  and,  I  suppose,  is  intended  to  mean  Faith 
of  the  Soul ;  or,  more  intelligibly  to  some  people  (not  to  be  envied), 
Spiritual  Fidelity. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET.  9 

sweet  and  solemn  even  for  kissing.  As  Sam  Slick 
said,  "  Natur'  teaches  that  air." 

The  story  of  "  The  Spanish  Gypsy  "  is  simply  this : 
Fedalma,  a  Zincala,  is  lost  in  her  early  childhood, 
and  brought  up  by  a  Spanish  duchess,  Don  Silva's 
mother.  As  she  grows  to  womanhood  Silva  loves 
her,  and  she  is  on  the  point  of  marrying  him  when 
the  narrative  opens.  But  Fedalma's  father,  Zarca, 
a  Gypsy  Moses,  Hiawatha,  or  both,  devoted  to  the 
regeneration  of  his  tribe,  suddenly  appears  upon  the 
scene  and  claims  his  daughter.  Will  she  marry 
Don  Silva,  or  go  with  her  father  and  be  the  priest- 
ess of  a  new  faith  to  the  Zincali?  She  decides  to 
accompany  her  father.  Upon  this  Silva  renounces 
his  position  as  a  Spanish  noble  and  Christian  knight, 
and  becomes  a  Zincalo.  This  implies  the  relinquish- 
ment  of  his  post  as  commander  of  the  town  and 
fortress  of  Bedmar,  which  it  is  his  duty  to  guard 
against  the  Moors ;  but  he  is  not  aware,  at  the  time 
he  takes  the  Gypsy  oath,  that  Zarca  is  already  in 
league  with  the  Moors  to  take  the  fortress.  Zarca 
and  the  Moors,  however,  succeed  in  investing  the 
place,  and  some  noble  Spaniards,  friends  of  Silva's, 
including  his  uncle,  Father  Isidor,  are  slain.  Mad 
with  remorse  and  rage,  Silva  stabs  Zarca,  but  is 
allowed  to  go  free.  The  poem  closes  with  the 
departure  of  Silva  to  obtain  absolution  from  the 
Pope,  in  order  that  he  may  recommence  the  career 
of  a  Christian  knight,  and  the  departure  of  Fedalma 
to  begin,  as  best  she  may,  the  work  bequeathed  to 
her  by  her  father,  namely,  the  regeneration  of  the 
Zincali. 

One  thing  is  obvious  on  the  face  of  this  story,  — 
that  Silva  was  guilty,  in  so  far  as  he  was  an  apostate. 
But  there  will  not  be  wanting  readers  who  when 


to  POEMS  Or  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

asking  the  question  who  was  the  cause  of  all  the 
misery  with  which  the  narrative  overflows,  will  say, 
Fedalrna.  It  was  all  very  well  to  say  that  her  past 
bound  her.  But  which  past  ?  When  Zarca  started 
up,  she  was  pledged  by  her  "  past "  to  Silva,  and  she 
loved  him.  What  Zarca  imported  into  the  situation 
was,  as  lawyers  say,  new  matter.  The  morrow 
would  have  seen  her  married  to  Silva;  and  what 
then,  if  Zarca  had  appeared  upon  the  stage  with  his 
Gypsy  patriotism  ?  All  the  future  was  dark  to  her, 
there  was  no  reason  whatever  to  believe  that  either 
she  or  Zarca  would  be  able  to  regenerate  the  Gyp- 
sies ;  there  was  present  actual  proof  that  she  was 
essential  to  Silva,  life  of  his  life,  and  the  bond  of 
his  being.  What  right  had  she  to  forsake  him  ?  It 
is  idle  to  discuss  this,  but  since,  as  far  as  I  can  make 
out,  there  is  distinct  teaching  in  the  poem,  and  that 
teaching  is  of  no  force  unless  Fedalma  was,  beyond 
question,  right,  it  is  perfectly  fair  and  appropriate  to 
suggest  that  there  is  room  for  question.  It  seems 
to  me  a  little  curious  that  George  Eliot  does  not  see 
that  the  same  reason  which  made  Sephardo,  the 
astrologer,  a  son  first  and  a  Jew  afterwards,  would 
make  Fedalrna  a  betrothed  woman  first  and  a 
Zincala  next. 

But  I  do  not  dwell  upon  this  point,  because  I 
look  forward  to  another  opportunity  of  dealing  with 
what  we  are  now  entitled  to  assume  is  George  Eliot's 
evangel,  — 

" .    .     .     .    that  Supreme,  the  irreversible  Past." 

Irreversible,  no  doubt,  but  —  "  Supreme ! "  The 
reader  must  not  imagine  that  I  am  darting  cap- 
tiously at  a  word  here.  Not  at  all.  George  Eliot 
has  a  very  distinct  meaning,  which  is  very  distinctly 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  TOET.  u 

affiliated  to  a  certain  mode  of  thought.  To  this 
mode  of  thought  may  be  traced  the  astounding 
discords  of  her  late  writings,  or  rather  the  one 
astounding  discord  which  runs  through  them. 

In  submitting  to  the  world  a  poem,  George  Eliot 
is  under  one  serious  disadvantage.  There  are  certain 
particulars  in  which  she  is  not  likely,  in  verse,  to 
excel  her  own  prose.  Clear  and  profound  concep- 
tion, and  emphatic,  luminous,  and  affecting  presen- 
tation of  character,  is  one  of  them.  The  power  of 
inventing  dramatic  situation  is  another.  In  these 
particulars  "  The  Spanish  Gypsy  "  falls  behind  noth- 
ing that  this  distinguished  writer  has  done ;  though 
I  do  not  myself  feel  that  either  Fedalma  or  Zarca 
is  dramatically  presented  to  us.  Indeed,  vivid  as 
George  Eliot's  painting  of  character  always  is,  and 
profoundly  intelligent,  I  never  thought  it  dramatic. 
Nor  is  it.  Here,  as  in  the  other  books  of  George 
Eliot,  character  is  always  most  vividly  described 
and  analyzed ;  and  what  the  people  do  is,  of  course, 
in  exact  accordance  with  what  is  described;  but 
none  of  them  reveal  themselves  without  having  had 
the  advantage  of  some  criticism.  None  of  them, 
that  is  to  say,  reveal  themselves  by  action  only,  or 
by  action  and  speech  only,  unless  the  speech  takes 
a  critical  form.  Zarca  is  shadowy,  and  Fedalma 
shadowy.  But  Juan  and  Silva  we  understand  well 
because  they  are  criticised ;  and  Isidor  the  prior,  and 
Sephardo  the  Jew,  we  understand  well,  because 
their  talk  is  criticism  of  a  kind  which  only  a  certain 
order  of  mind  could  produce.  Perhaps  the  finest 
portions  of  the  poem  lie  in  some  of  these  critical  or 
quasi-critical  passages.  Let  us  take  "  The  Astrolo- 
ger's Study":  — 


12  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

"  A  room  high  up  in  Abderahman's  tower, 
A  window  open  to  the  still  warm  eve, 
And  the  bright  disk  of  royal  Jupiter. 
Lamps  burning  low  make  little  atmospheres 
Of  light  amid  the  dimness;  here  and  there 
Show  books  and  phials,  stones  and  instruments. 
In  carved  dark-oaken  chair,  unpillowed,  sleeps 
Right  in  the  rays  of  Jupiter  a  small  man, 
In  skull-cap  bordered  close  with  crisp  gray  curls, 
And  loose  black  gown  showing  a  neck  and  breast 
Protected  by  a  dim-green  amulet; 
Pale-faced,  with  finest  nostril  wont  to  breathe 
Ethereal  passion  in  a  world  of  thought ; 
Eyebrows  jet-black  and  firm,  yet  delicate; 
Beard  scant  and  grizzled;  mouth  shut  firm,  with  curves 
So  subtly  turned  to  meanings  exquisite, 
You  seem  to  read  them  as  you  read  a  word 
Full-vowelled,  long  descended,  pregnant,  —  rich 
With  legacies  from  long,  laborious  lives." 

Juan's  criticism  of  himself :  — 

"  I  can  unleash  my  fancy  if  you  wish 
And  hunt  for  phantoms :  shoot  an  airy  guess 
And  bring  down  airy  likelihood,  —  some  lie 
Masked  cunningly  to  look  like  royal  truth 
And  cheat  the  shooter,  while  King  Fact  goes  free, 
Or  else  some  image  of  reality 
That  doubt  will  handle  and  reject  as  false. 
Ask  for  conjecture,  —  I  can  thread  the  sky 
Like  any  swallow,  but,  if  you  insist 
On  knowledge  that  would  guide  a  pair  of  feet 
Right  to  Bedmar,  across  the  Moorish  bounds, 
A  mule  that  dreams  of  stumbling  over  stones 
Is  better  stored." 

And,  assuredly,  I  must  not  omit  the  study  of  the 
character  of  Silva  himself  :  — 

"A  man  of  high- wrought  strain,  fastidious 
In  his  acceptance,  dreading  all  delight 
That  speedy  dies  and  turns  to  carrion  : 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET.  13 

His  senses  much  exacting,  deep  instilled 

With  keen  imagination's  difficult  needs  ;  — 

Like  strong-limbed  monsters  studded  o'er  with  eyes, 

Their  hunger  checked  by  overwhelming  vision, 

Or  that  fierce  lion  in  symbolic  dream 

Snatched  from  the  ground  by  wings  and  new-endowed 

With  a  man's  thought-propelled  relenting  heart. 

Silva  was  both  the  lion  and  the  man ; 

First  hesitating  shrank,  then  fiercely  sprang, 

Or  having  sprung,  turned  pallid  at  his  deed 

And  loosed  the  prize,  paying  his  blood  for  naught. 

A  nature  half-transformed,  with  qualities 

That  oft  bewrayed  each  other,  elements 

Not  blent  but  struggling,  breeding  strange  effects, 

Passing  the  reckoning  of  his  friends  or  foes. 

Haughty  and  generous,  grave  and  passionate  ; 

With  tidal  moments  of  devoutest  awe, 

Sinking  anon  to  farthest  ebb  of  doubt ; 

Deliberating  ever,  till  the  sting 

Of  a  recurrent  ardour  made  him  rush 

Eight  against  reasons  that  himself  had  drilled 

And  marshalled  painfully.     A  spirit  framed 

Too  proudly  special  for  obedience, 

Too  subtly  pondering  for  mastery  : 

Born  of  a  goddess  with  a  mortal  sire, 

Heir  of  flesh-fettered,  weak  divinity, 

Doom-gifted  with  long  resonant  consciousness 

And  perilous  heightening  of  the  sentient  soul. 

But  look  less  curiously  :  life  itself 

May  not  express  us  all,  may  leave  the  worst 

And  the  best  too,  like  tunes  in  mechanism 

Never  awaked.     In  various  catalogues 

Objects  stand  variously." 

There  is  only  one  living  mind  which  could  have 
given  us  poetico-psychological  studies  of  human 
character  like  these.  There  is  no  comparison  in 
range  of  faculty  between  such  a  mind  and  John 
Clare's.  Is  it  not  strange,  and  almost  pathetic,  that 
an  uncultivated  peasant  could  sing,  and  touch  us 
with  music,  as  no  speech  could;  and  yet  that  a 


14  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

highly  cultivated  mind  like  George  Eliot's  should 
almost  overwhelm  our  judgment  by  the  richness 
and  volume  of  what  it  pours  forth  in  the  name  of 
song ;  and  yet  that  we  are  compelled  to  say  the 
bird-note  is  missing  ? 

MATTHEW  BROWSE. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S   LIFE. 
EDITED  BY  J.  W.  CROSS. 


AMONG  my  wife's  papers  were  four  or  five  pages 
of  manuscript  headed  "  Notes  on  the  Spanish  Gypsy 
and  Tragedy  in  General. "  There  is  no  evidence 
as  to  the  date  at  which  this  fragment  was  written, 
and  it  seems  to  have  been  left  unfinished.  But 
there  was  evidently  some  care  to  preserve  it ;  and 
as  I  think  she  would  not  have  objected  to  its  pre- 
sentation, I  give  it  here  exactly  as  it  stands.  It 
completes  the  history  of  the  poem. 

"  The  subject  of  '  The  Spanish  Gypsy'  was  origi- 
nally suggested  to  me  by  a  picture  which  hangs  in 
the  Scuola  di'  San  Rocco  at  Venice,  over  the  door 
of  the  large  Sala  containing  Tintoretto's  frescos. 
It  is  an  Annunciation,  said  to  be  by  Titian.  Of 
course  I  had  seen  numerous  pictures  of  this  subject 
before ;  and  the  subject  had  always  attracted  me. 
But  in  this  my  second  visit  to  the  Scuola  di'  San 
Rocco,  this  small  picture  of  Titian's,  pointed  out 
to  me  for  the  first  time,  brought  a  new  train  of 
thought.  It  occurred  to  me  that  here  was  a  great 
dramatic  motive  of  the  same  class  as  those  used 
by  the  Greek  dramatists,  yet  specifically  differing 
from  them.  A  young  maiden,  believing  herself 
to  be  on  the  eve  of  the  chief  event  of  her  life,  — 


16     EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE. 

marriage, — about  to  share  in  the  ordinary  lot 
of  womanhood,  full  of  young  hope,  has  suddenly 
announced  to  her  that  she  is  chosen  to  fulfil  a 
great  destiny,  entailing  a  terribly  different  expe- 
rience from  that  of  ordinary  womanhood.  She  is 
chosen,  not  by  any  momentary  arbitrariness,  but 
as  a  result  of  foregoing  hereditary  conditions  :  she 
obeys.  '  Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord. '  Here, 
I  thought,  is  a  subject  grander  than  that  of  Iphi- 
genia,  and  it  has  never  been  used.  I  came  home 
with  this  in  my  mind,  meaning  to  give  the  motive 
a  clothing  in  some  suitable  set  of  historical  and 
local  conditions.  My  reflections  brought  me  noth- 
ing that  would  serve  me,  except  that  moment  in 
Spanish  history  when  the  struggle  with  the  Moors 
was  attaining  its  climax,  and  when  there  was  the 
gypsy  race  present  under  such  conditions  as  would 
enable  me  to  get  my  heroine  and  the  hereditary 
claim  on  her  among  the  gypsies.  I  required  the 
opposition  of  race  to  give  the  need  for  renouncing 
the  expectation  of  marriage.  I  could  not  use  the 
Jews  or  the  Moors,  because  the  facts  of  their  his- 
tory were  too  conspicuously  opposed  to  the  work- 
ing out  of  my  catastrophe.  Meanwhile  the  subject 
had  become  more  and  more  pregnant  to  me.  I  saw 
it  might  be  taken  as  a  symbol  of  the  part  which 
is  played  in  the  general  human  lot  by  hereditary 
conditions  in  the  largest  sense,  and  of  the  fact  that 
what  we  call  duty  is  entirely  made  up  of  such 
conditions ;  for  even  in  cases  of  just  antagonism  to 
the  narrow  view  of  hereditary  claims,  the  whole 
background  of  the  particular  struggle  is  made  up  of 
our  inherited  nature.  Suppose  for  a  moment  that 
our  conduct  at  great  epochs  was  determined  entirely 
by  reflection,  without  the  immediate  intervention 


EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE.      17 

of  feeling,  which  supersedes  reflection,  our  determi- 
nation as  to  the  right  would  consist  in  an  adjust- 
ment of  our  individual  needs  to  the  dire  necessities 
of  our  lot,  partly  as  to  our  natural  constitution, 
partly  as  sharers  of  life  with  our  fellow-beings. 
Tragedy  consists  in  the  terrible  difficulty  of  this 
adjustment,  — 

"  '  The  dire  strife  of  poor  Humanity's  afflicted  will, 
Struggling  in  vain  with  ruthless  destiny.' 

Looking  at  individual  lots,  I  seemed  to  see  in 
each  the  same  story,  wrought  out  with  more  or 
less  of  tragedy,  and  I  determined  the  elements  of 
my  drama  under  the  influence  of  these  ideas. 

"  In  order  to  judge  properly  of  the  dramatic 
structure  it  must  not  be  considered  first  in  the 
light  of  doctrinal  symbolism,  but  in  the  light  of 
a  tragedy  representing  some  grand  collision  in  the 
human  lot.  And  it  must  be  judged  accordingly. 
A  good  tragic  subject  must  represent  a  possible, 
sufficiently  probable,  not  a  common,  action;  and 
to  be  really  tragic,  it  must  represent  irreparable 
collision  between  the  individual  and  the  general 
(in  differing  degrees  of  generality).  It  is  the  indi- 
vidual with  whom  we  sympathize,  and  the  general 
of  which  we  recognize  the  irresistible  power.  The 
truth  of  this  test  will  be  seen  by  applying  it  to 
the  greatest  tragedies.  The  collision  of  Greek 
tragedy  is  often  that  between  hereditary,  entailed 
Nemesis  and  the  peculiar  individual  lot,  awaken- 
ing our  sympathy,  of  the  particular  man  or  woman 
whom  the  Nemesis  is  shown  to  grasp  with  terrific 
force.  Sometimes,  as  in  the  Oresteia,  there  is  the 
clashing  of  two  irreconcilable  requirements,  —  two 
duties,  as  we  should  say  in  these  times.  The  mur- 

VOL.   I.  —  2 


1 8     EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE. 

der  of  the  father  must  be  avenged  by  the  murder  of 
the  mother,  which  must  again  be  avenged.  These 
two  tragic  relations  of  the  individual  and  general, 
and  of  two  irreconcilable  '  oughts,'  may  be  —  will 
be  —  seen  to  be  almost  always  combined.  The 
Greeks  were  not  taking  an  artificial,  entirely  er- 
roneous standpoint  in  their  art,  —  a  standpoint 
which  disappeared  altogether  with  their  religion 
and  their  art.  They  had  the  same  essential  ele- 
ments of  life  presented  to  them  as  we  have,  and 
their  art  symbolized  these  in  grand  schematic 
forms.  The  Prometheus  represents  the  ineffectual 
struggle  to  redeem  the  small  and  miserable  race  of 
man,  against  the  stronger  adverse  ordinances  that 
govern  the  frame  of  things  with  a  triumphant 
power.  Coming  to  modern  tragedies,  what  is  it 
that  makes  Othello  a  great  tragic  subject  ?  A 
story  simply  of  a  jealous  husband  is  elevated  into 
a  most  pathetic  tragedy  by  the  hereditary  condi- 
tions of  Othello's  lot,  which  give  him  a  subjective 
ground  for  distrust.  Faust,  Kigoletto  ('  Le  Roi 
s' Amuse'),  Brutus.  It  might  be  a  reasonable 
ground  of  objection  against  the  whole  structure  of 
'  The  Spanish  Gypsy, '  if  it  were  shown  that  the 
action  is  outrageously  improbable,  —  lying  outside 
all  that  can  be  congruously  conceived  of  human 
actions.  It  is  not  a  reasonable  ground  of  objection 
that  they  would  have  done  better  to  act  otherwise, 
any  more  than  it  is  a  reasonable  objection  against 
the  Iphigenia  that  Agamemnon  would  have  done 
better  not  to  sacrifice  his  daughter. 

"  As  renunciations  coming  under  the  same  great 
class,  take  the  renunciation  of  marriage  where 
marriage  cannot  take  place,  without  entailing  mis- 
ery on  the  children. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE.      19 

"  A  tragedy  has  not  to  expound  why  the  indivi- 
dual must  give  way  to  the  general ;  it  has  to  show 
that  it  is  compelled  to  give  way, — the  tragedy 
consisting  in  the  struggle  involved,  and  often  in 
the  entirely  calamitous  issue  in  spite  of  a  grand 
submission.  Silva  presents  the  tragedy  of  entire 
rebellion;  Fedalma,  of  a  grand  submission,  which 
is  rendered  vain  by  the  effects  of  Silva's  rebellion; 
Zarca,  the  struggle  for  a  great  end,  rendered  vain 
by  the  surrounding  conditions  of  life. 

"  Now,  what  is  the  fact  about  our  individual 
lots  ?  A  woman,  say,  finds  herself  on  the  earth 
with  an  inherited  organization :  she  may  be  lame, 
she  may  inherit  a  disease,  or  what  is  tantamount 
to  a  disease ;  she  may  be  a  negress,  or  have  other 
marks  of  race  repulsive  in  the  community  where 
she  is  born,  etc.  One  may  go  on  for  a  long  while 
without  reaching  the  limits  of  the  commonest  in- 
herited misfortunes.  It  is  almost  a  mockery  to 
say  to  such  human  beings,  '  Seek  your  own  hap- 
piness. '  The  utmost  approach  to  well-being  that 
can  be  made  in  such  a  case  is  through  large  resig- 
nation and  acceptance  of  the  inevitable,  with  as 
much  effort  to  overcome  any  disadvantage  as  good 
sense  will  show  to  be  attended  with  a  likelihood 
of  success.  Any  one  may  say,  that  is  the  dictate 
of  mere  rational  reflection.  But  calm  can  in  hardly 
any  human  organism  be  attained  by  rational  reflec- 
tion. Happily,  we  are  not  left  to  that.  Love, 
pity,  constituting  sympathy,  and  generous  joy  with 
regard  to  the  lot  of  our  fellow-men  comes  in,  —  has 
been  growing  since  the  beginning,  —  enormously 
enhanced  by  wider  vision  of  results,  by  an  imagi- 
nation actively  interested  in  the  lot  of  mankind 
generally ;  and  these  feelings  become  piety-  —  that 


20     EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE. 

is,  loving,  willing  submission  and  heroic  Prome- 
thean effort  towards  high  possibilities,  which  may 
result  from  our  individual  life. 

"  There  is  really  no  moral  '  sanction'  but  this 
inward  impulse.  The  will  of  God  is  the  same 
thing  as  the  will  of  other  men,  compelling  us  to 
work  and  avoid  what  they  have  seen  to  be  harmful 
to  social  existence.  Disjoined  from  any  perceived 
good,  the  divine  will  is  simply  so  much  as  we 
have  ascertained  of  the  facts  of  existence  which 
compel  obedience  at  our  peril.  Any  other  notion 
comes  from  the  supposition  of  arbitrary  revelation. 

"  That  favourite  view,  expressed  so  often  in 
dough's  poems,  of  doing  duty  in  blindness  as  to 
the  result,  is  likely  to  deepen  the  substitution  of 
egoistic  yearnings  for  really  moral  impulses.  We 
cannot  be  utterly  blind  to  the  results  of  duty, 
since  that  cannot  be  duty  which  is  not  already 
judged  to  be  for  human  good.  To  say  the  contrary 
is  to  say  that  mankind  have  reached  no  inductions 
as  to  what  is  for  their  good  or  evil. 

"  The  art  which  leaves  the  soul  in  despair  is 
laming  to  the  soul,  and  is  denounced  by  the 
healthy  sentiment  of  an  active  community.  The 
consolatory  elements  in  '  The  Spanish  Gypsy'  are 
derived  from  two  convictions  or  sentiments  which 
so  conspicuously  pervade  it  that  they  may  be  said 
to  be  its  very  warp,  on  which  the  whole  action  is 
woven.  These  are :  (1)  The  importance  of  indivi- 
dual deeds;  (2)  The  all-sufficiency  of  the  soul's 
passions  in  determining  sympathetic  action. 

"  In  Silva  is  presented  the  claim  of  fidelity  to 
social  pledges ;  in  Fedalma,  the  claim  constituted 
by  an  hereditary  lot  less  consciously  shared. 

"  With  regard   to  the   supremacy  of  love :  if  it 


EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE.      21 

were  a  fact  without  exception  that  man  or  woman 
never  did  renounce  the  joys  of  love,  there  could 
never  have  sprung  up  a  notion  that  such  renuncia- 
tion could  present  itself  as  a  duty.  If  no  parents 
had  ever  cared  for  their  children,  how  could  pa- 
rental affection  have  been  reckoned  among  the  ele- 
ments of  life  ?  But  what  are  the  facts  in  relation 
to  this  matter?  Will  any  one  say  that  faithful- 
ness to  the  marriage  tie  has  never  been  regarded  as 
a  duty,  in  spite  of  the  presence  of  the  profoundest 
passion  experienced  after  marriage  ?  Is  Guinevere's 
conduct  the  type  of  duty  ?  " 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY, 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


THE  SPANISH   GYPSY. 
BOOK  I. 

'Tis  the  warm  South,  where  Europe  spreads  her 

lands 

Like  fretted  leaflets,  breathing  on  the  deep : 
Broad-breasted  Spain,  leaning  with  equal  love 
(A   calm    earth-goddess    crowned   with    corn   and 

vines) 

On  the  Mid  Sea  that  moans  with  memories, 
And  on  the  untravelled  Ocean,  whose  vast  tides 
Pant  dumbly  passionate  with  dreams  of  youth. 
This  river,  shadowed  by  the  battlements 
And  gleaming  silvery  towards  the  northern  sky, 
Feeds  the  famed  stream  that  waters  Andalus 
And  loiters,  amorous  of  the  fragrant  air, 
By  C6rdova  and  Seville  to  the  bay 
Fronting  Algarva  and  the  wandering  flood 
Of  Guadiana.      This  deep  mountain  gorge 
Slopes  widening  on  the  olive-plumed  plains 
Of  fair  Granada  :  one  far-stretching  arm 
Points  to  Elvira,  one  to  eastward  heights 
Of  Alpuj  arras  where  the  new-bathed  Day 
With  oriflamme  uplifted  o'er  the  peaks 
Saddens  the  breasts  of  northward-looking  snows 


26  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

That  loved  the  night,  and  soared  with  soaring  stars  j 

Flashing  the  signals  of  his  nearing  swiftness 

From  Almeria's  purple-shadowed  bay 

On  to  the  far-off  rocks  that  gaze  and  glow,  — 

On  to  Alhambra,  strong  and  ruddy  heart 

Of  glorious  Morisma,  gasping  now, 

A  maimdd  giant  in  his  agony. 

This  town  that  dips  its  feet  within  the  stream, 

And  seems  to  sit  a  tower-crowned  Cybele, 

Spreading  her  ample  robe  adown  the  rocks, 

Is  rich  Bedmdr  :  't  was  Moorish  long  ago, 

But  now  the  Cross  is  sparkling  on  the  Mosque, 

And  bells  make  Catholic  the  trembling  air. 

The  fortress  gleams  in  Spanish  sunshine  now 

('T  is  south  a  mile  before  the  rays  are  Moorish),  — 

Hereditary  jewel,  agraffe  bright 

On  all  the  many-titled  privilege 

Of  young  Duke  Silva.      No  Castilian  knight 

That  serves  Queen  Isabel  has  higher  charge ; 

For  near  this  frontier  sits  the  Moorish  king, 

Not  Boabdil  the  waverer,  who  usurps 

A  throne  he  trembles  in,  and  fawning  licks 

The  feet  of  conquerors,  but  that  fierce  lion 

Grisly  El  Zagal,  who  has  made  his  lair 

In  Guadix'  fort,  and  rushing  thence  with  strength, 

Half  his  own  fierceness,  half  the  untainted  heart 

Of  mountain  bands  that  fight  for  holiday, 

Wastes  the  fair  lands  that  lie  by  Alcala, 

Wreathing  his  horse's  neck  with  Christian  heads. 

To  keep  the  Christian  frontier,  —  such  high  trust 
Is  young  Duke  Silva 's;  and  the  time  is  great. 
(What  times  are  little  ?     To  the  sentinel 
That  hour  is  regal  when  he  mounts  on  guard.) 
The  fifteenth  century  since  the  Man  Divine 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  27 

Taught  and  was  hated  in  Capernaum 

Is  near  its  end,  — is  falling  as  a  husk 

Away  from  all  the  fruit  its  years  have  ripened 

The  Moslem  faith,  now  flickering  like  a  torch 

In  a  night  struggle  on  this  shore  of  Spain, 

Glares,  a  broad  column  of  advancing  flame, 

Along  the  Danube  and  Illyrian  shore 

Far  into  Italy,  where  eager  monks, 

Who  watch  in  dreams  and  dream  the  while  they 

watch, 

See  Christ  grow  paler  in  the  baleful  light, 
Crying  again  the  cry  of  the  forsaken. 
But  faith,  the  stronger  for  extremity, 
Becomes  prophetic,  hears  the  far-off  tread 
Of  western  chivalry,  sees  downward  sweep 
The  archangel  Michael  with  the  gleaming  sword, 
And  listens  for  the  shriek  of  hurrying  fiends 
Chased  from  their  revels  in  God's  sanctuary. 
So  trusts  the  monk,  and  lifts  appealing  eyes 
To  the  high  dome,  the  Church's  firmament, 
Where  the  blue  light-pierced  curtain,  rolled  away 
Eeveals  the  throne  and  Him  who  sits  thereon. 
So  trust  the  men  whose  best  hope  for  the  world 
Is  ever  that  the  world  is  near  its  end : 
Impatient  of  the  stars  that  keep  their  course 
And  make  no  pathway  for  the  coming  Judge. 

But  other  futures  stir  the  world's  great  heart. 

The  West  now  enters  on  the  heritage 

Won  from  the  tombs  of  mighty  ancestors, 

The  seeds,  the  gold,  the  gems,  the  silent  harps 

That  lay  deep  buried  with  the  memories 

Of  old  renown. 

No  more,  as  once  in  sunny  Avignon, 

The  poet-scholar  spreads  the  Homeric  page, 


28  POEMS  Of  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  gazes  sadly,  like  the  deaf  at  song ; 

For  now  the  old  epic  voices  ring  again 

And  vibrate  with  the  beat  and  melody 

Stirred  by  the  warmth  of  old  Ionian  days. 

The  martyred  sage,  the  Attic  orator, 

Immortally  incarnate,  like  the  gods, 

In  spiritual  bodies,  winge'd  words 

Holding  a  universe  impalpable, 

Find  a  new  audience.     Forevermore, 

With  grander  resurrection  than  was  feigned 

Of  Attila's  fierce  Huns,  the  soul  of  Greece 

Conquers  the  bulk  of  Persia.     The  maimed  form 

Of  calmly  joyous  beauty,  marble-limbed, 

Yet  breathing  with  the   thought   that  shaped  its 

lips, 

Looks  mild  reproach  from  out  its  opened  grave 
At  creeds  of  terror;  and  the  vine-wreathed  god 
Rising,  a  stifled  question  from  the  silence, 
Fronts  the  pierced  Image  with  the  crown  of  thorns. 
The  soul  of  man  is  widening  towards  the  past : 
No  longer  hanging  at  the  breast  of  life 
Feeding  in  blindness  to  his  parentage,  — 
Quenching  all  wonder  with  Omnipotence, 
Praising  a  name  with  indolent  piety,  — 
He  spells  the  record  of  his  long  descent, 
More  largely  conscious  of  the  life  that  was 
And  from  the  height  that  shows  where  morning 

shone 

On  far-off  summits  pale  and  gloomy  now, 
The  horizon  widens  round  him,  and  the  west 
Looks  vast  with  untracked  waves  whereon  his  gaze 
Follows  the  flight  of  the  swift-vanished  bird 
That  like  the  sunken  sun  is  mirrored  still 
Upon  the  yearning  soul  within  the  eye. 
And  so  in  Cordova  through  patient  nights 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  29 

Columbus  watches,  or  he  sails  in  dreams 

Between  the  setting  stars  and  finds  new  day ; 

Then  wakes  again  to  the  old  weary  days, 

Girds  on  the  cord  and  frock  of  pale  Saint  Francis, 

And  like  him  zealous  pleads  with  foolish  men. 

"  I  ask  but  for  a  million  maravedis  : 

Give  me  three  caravels  to  find  a  world, 

New   shores,    new   realms,    new   soldiers   for  the 

Cross. 

Son  cosas  grandes  !  "     Thus  he  pleads  in  vain ; 
Yet  faints  not  utterly,  but  pleads  anew, 
Thinking,  "  God  means  it,  and  has  chosen  me. " 
For  this  man  is  the  pulse  of  all  mankind 
Feeding  an  embryo  future,  offspring  strange 
Of  the  fond  Present,  that  with  mother-prayers 
And  mother-fancies  looks  for  championship 
Of  all  her  loved  beliefs  and  old-world  ways 
From  that  young  Time  she  bears  within  her  womb. 
The  sacred  places  shall  be  purged  again, 
The  Turk  converted,  and  the  Holy  Church, 
Like  the  mild  Virgin  with  the  outspread  robe, 
Shall  fold  all  tongues  and  nations  lovingly. 

But  since  God  works  by  armies,  who  shall  be 

The  modern  Cyrus  ?     Is  it  France  most  Christian, 

Who  with  his  lilies  and  brocaded  knights, 

French  oaths,  French  vices,  and  the  newest  style 

Of  out-puffed  sleeve,  shall  pass  from  west  to  east, 

A  winnowing  fan  to  purify  the  seed 

For  fair  millennial  harvests  soon  to  come  ? 

Or  is  not  Spain  the  land  of  chosen  warriors  ?  — 

Crusaders  consecrated  from  the  womb, 

Carrying  the  sword-cross  stamped  upon  their  soulg 

By  the  long  yearnings  of  a  nation's  life, 

Through  all  the  seven  patient  centuries 


30  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Since  first  Pelayo  and  his  resolute  band 

Trusted  the  God  within  their  Gothic  hearts 

At  Covadunga,  and  defied  Mahound ; 

Beginning  so  the  Holy  War  of  Spain 

That  now  is  panting  with  the  eagerness 

Of  labour  near  its  end.     The  silver  cross 

Glitters  o'er  Malaga  and  streams  dread  light 

On  Moslem  galleys,  turning  all  their  stores 

From  threats  to  gifts.      What  Spanish  knight  is  ha 

Who,  living  now,  holds  it  not  shame  to  live 

Apart  from  that  hereditary  battle 

Which  needs  his  sword  ?     Castilian  gentlemen 

Choose  not  their  task,  —  they  choose  to  do  it  well. 

The  time  is  great,  and  greater  no  man's  trust 
Than  his  who  keeps  the  fortress  for  his  king, 
Wearing  great  honours  as  some  delicate  robe 
Brocaded  o'er  with  names  't  were  sin  to  tarnish. 
Born  de  la  Cerda,  Calatravan  knight, 
Count  of  Segura,  fourth  Duke  of  Bedmar, 
Offshoot  from  that  high  stock  of  old  Castile 
Whose  topmost  branch  is  proud  Medina  Celi,  — 
Such  titles  with  their  blazonry  are  his 
Who  keeps  this  fortress,  sworn  Alcayde, 
Lord  of  the  valley,  master  of  the  town, 
Commanding  whom  he  will,  himself  commanded 
By  Christ  his  Lord  who  sees  him  from  the  Cross 
And  from  bright  heaven  where  the  Mother  pleads  :  - 
By  good  Saint  James  upon  the  milk-white  steed, 
Who  leaves  his  bliss  to  fight  for  chosen  Spain ;  — 
By  the  dead  gaze  of  all  his  ancestors ;  — 
And  by  the  mystery  of  his  Spanish  blood 
Charged  with  the  awe  and  glories  of  the  past. 
See  now  with  soldiers  in  his  front  and  rear 
He  winds  at  evening  through  the  narrow  streets 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  31 

That  toward  the  Castle  gate  climb  devious : 
His  charger,  of  fine  Andalusian  stock, 
An  Indian  beauty,  black  but  delicate, 
Is  conscious  of  the  herald  trumpet  note, 
The  gathering  glances,  and  familiar  ways 
That  lead  fast  homeward  :  she  forgets  fatigue, 
And  at  the  light  touch  of  the  master's  spur 
Thrills  with  the  zeal  to  bear  him  royally, 
Arches  her  neck  and  clambers  up  the  stones 
As  if  disdainful  of  the  difficult  steep. 
Night-black  the  charger,  black  the  rider's  plume, 
But  all  between  is  bright  with  morning  hues,  — 
Seems  ivory  and  gold  and  deep  blue  gems, 
And  starry  flashing  steel  and  pale  vermilion, 
All  set  in  jasper :  on  his  surcoat  white 
Glitter  the  sword-belt  and  the  jewelled  hilt, 
Red  on  the  back  and  breast  the  holy  cross, 
And  'twixt  the  helmet  and  the  soft -spun  white 
Thick  tawny  wavelets  like  the  lion's  mane 
Turn  backward  from  his  brow,  pale,  wide,  erect, 
Shadowing   blue  eyes,  —  blue  as  the  rain-washed 

sky 

That  braced  the  early  stem  of  Gothic  kings 
He  claims  for  ancestry.     A  goodly  knight, 
A  noble  caballero,  broad  of  chest 
And  long  of  limb.     So  much  the  August  sun, 
Now  in  the  west  but  shooting  half  its  beams 
Past  a  dark  rocky  profile  toward  the  plain, 
At  winding  opportunities  across  the  slope 
Makes  suddenly  luminous  for  all  who  see : 
For  women  smiling  from  the  terraced  roofs ; 
For   boys   that   prone   on   trucks   with   head   up 

propped, 

Lazy  and  curious,  stare  irreverent ; 
For  men  who  make  obeisance  with  degrees 


32  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Of  good-will  shading  toward  servility, 
Where  good-will  ends  and  secret  fear  begins, 
And  curses,  too,  low-muttered  through  the  teeth, 
Explanatory  to  the  God  of  Shem. 
Five,  grouped  within  a  whitened  tavern  court 
Of  Moorish  fashion,  where  the  trellised  vines 
Purpling  above  their  heads  make  odorous  shade, 
Note  through  the  open  door  the  passers-by, 
Getting  some  rills  of  novelty  to  speed 
The  lagging  stream  of  talk  and  help  the  wine. 
'T  is  Christian  to  drink  wine  :  whoso  denies 
His  flesh  at  bidding  save  of  Holy  Church, 
Let  him  beware  and  take  to  Christian  sins 
Lest  he  be  taxed  with  Moslem  sanctity. 

The  souls  are  five,  the  talkers  only  three. 

(No  time,  most  tainted  by  wrong  faith  and  rule, 

But  holds  some  listeners  and  dumb  animals.) 

MIXE  HOST  is  one :  he  with  the  well-arched  nose, 

Soft-eyed,  fat-handed,  loving  men  for  naught 

But  his  own  humour,  patting  old  and  young 

Upon  the  back,  and  mentioning  the  cost 

With  confidential  blandness,  as  a  tax 

That  he  collected  much  against  his  will 

From  Spaniards  who  were  all  his  bosom  friends : 

Warranted  Christian,  —  else  how  keep  an  inn, 

Which   calling  asks   true  faith  ?   though   like  his 

wine 

Of  cheaper  sort,  a  trifle  over-new. 
His  father  was  a  convert,  chose  the  chrism 
As  men  choose  physic,  kept  his  chimney  warm 
With  smokiest  wood  upon  a  Saturday, 
Counted  his  gains  and  grudges  on  a  chaplet, 
And  crossed  himself  asleep  for  fear  of  spies ; 
Trusting  the  God  of  Israel  would  see 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  33 

'T  was  Christian  tyranny  that  made  him  base. 
Our  host  his  son  was  born  ten  years  too  soon, 
Had  heard  his  mother  call  him  Ephraim, 
Knew  holy  things  from  common,  thought  it  sin 
To  feast  on  days  when  Israel's  children  mourned, 
So  had  to  be  converted  with  his  sire, 
To  doff  the  awe  he  learned  as  Ephraim, 
And  suit  his  manners  to  a  Christian  name. 
But  infant  awe,  that  unborn  breathing  thing, 
Dies  with  what  nourished  it,  can  never  rise 
From   the   dead  womb   and  walk   and   seek    new 

pasture. 

Baptism  seemed  to  him  a  merry  game 
Not  tried  before,  all  sacraments  a  mode 
Of  doing  homage  for  one's  property, 
And  all  religions  a  queer  human  whim 
Or  else  a  vice,  according  to  degrees  : 
As,  'tis  a  whim  to  like  your  chestnuts  hot, 
Burn  your  own  mouth  and  draw  your  face  awry, 
A  vice  to  pelt  frogs  with  them,  —  animals 
Content  to  take  life  coolly.     And  Lorenzo 
Would  have  all  lives  made  easy,  even  lives 
Of  spiders  and  inquisitors,  yet  still 
Wishing  so  well  to  flies  and  Moors  and  Jews, 
He  rather  wished  the  others  easy  death  ; 
For  loving  all  men  clearly  was  deferred 
Till  all  men  loved  each  other.     Such  mine  Host. 
With  chiselled  smile  caressing  Seneca, 
The  solemn  mastiff  leaning  on  his  knee. 

His  right-hand  guest  is  solemn  as  the  dog, 
Square-faced  and  massive  :  BLASCO  is  his  name, 
A  prosperous  silversmith  from  Aragon ; 
In  speech  not  silvery,  rather  tuned  as  notes 
From  a  deep  vessel  made  of  plenteous  iron, 
VOL.  j.  —  3 


34  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Or  some  great  bell  of  slow  but  certain  swing 
That,  if  you  only  wait,  will  tell  the  hour 
As  well  as  flippant  clocks  that  strike  in  haste 
And  set  off  chiming  a  superfluous  tune,  — 
Like  JUAN  there,  the  spare  man  with  the  lute, 
Who  makes  you  dizzy  with  his  rapid  tongue, 
Whirring  athwart  your  mind  with  comment  swift 
On  speech  you  would  have  finished  by  and  by, 
Shooting  your  bird  for  you  while  you  are  loading, 
Cheapening  your  wisdom  as  a  pattern  known, 
Woven  by  any  shuttle  on  demand. 
Can  never  sit  quite  still,  too :  sees  a  wasp 
And  kills  it  with  a  movement  like  a  flash ; 
Whistles  low  notes  or  seems  to  thrum  his  lute 
As  a  mere  hyphen  'twixt  two  syllables 
Of  any  steadier  man ;  walks  up  and  down 
And  snuffs  the  orange  flowers  and  shoots  a  pea 
To  hit  a  streak  of  light  let  through  the  awning. 
Has  a  queer  face :  eyes  large  as  plums,  a  nose 
Small,  round,  uneven,  like  a  bit  of  wax 
Melted  and  cooled  by  chance.    Thin-fingered,  lithe, 
And  as  a  squirrel  noiseless,  startling  men 
Only  by  quickness.      In  his  speech  and  look 
A  touch  of  graceful  wildness,  as  of  things 
Not  trained  or  tamed  for  uses  of  the  world ; 
Most  like  the  Fauns  that  roamed  in  days  of  old 
About  the  listening  whispering  woods,  and  shared 
The  subtler  sense  of  sylvan  ears  and  eyes 
Undulled  by  scheming  thought,  yet  joined  the  rout 
Of  men  and  women  on  the  festal  days, 
And  played  the  syrinx  too,  and  knew  love's  pains, 
Turning  their  anguish  into  melody. 
For  Juan  was  a  minstrel  still,  in  times 
When  minstrelsy  was  held  a  thing  outworn. 
Spirits  seem  buried  and  their  epitaph 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  35 

Is  writ  in  Latin  by  severest  pens, 

Yet  still  they  flit  above  the  trodden  grave 

And  find  new  bodies,  animating  them 

In  quaint  and  ghostly  way  with  antique  souls. 

So  Juan  was  a  troubadour  .revived, 

Freshening  life's  dusty  road  with  babbling  rills 

Of  wit  and  song,  living  'mid  harnessed  men 

With  limbs  ungalled  by  armour,  ready  so 

To  soothe  them  weary,  and  to  cheer  them  sad. 

Guest  at  the  board,  companion  in  the  camp, 

A  crystal  mirror  to  the  life  around, 

Flashing  the  comment  keen  of  simple  fact 

Defined  in  words ;  lending  brief  lyric  voice 

To  grief  and  sadness  ;  hardly  taking  note 

Of  difference  betwixt  his  own  and  others' ; 

But  rather  singing  as  a  listener 

To  the  deep  moans,  the  cries,  the  wild  strong  joys 

Of  universal  Nature,  old  yet  young. 

Such  Juan,  the  third  talker,  shimmering  bright 

As  butterfly  or  bird  with  quickest  life. 

The  silent  EOLDAN  has  his  brightness  too, 

But  only  in  his  spangles  and  rosettes. 

His  party-coloured  vest  and  crimson  hose 

Are  dulled  with  old  Valencian  dust,  his  eyes 

With  straining  fifty  years  at  gilded  balls 

To  catch  them  dancing,  or  with  brazen  looks 

At  men  and  women-as  he  made  his  jests 

Some  thousand   times   and  watched  to  count  the 

pence 

His  wife  was  gathering.     His  olive  face 
Has  an  old  writing  in  it,  characters 
Stamped  deep  by  grins  that  had  no  merriment, 
The  soul's  rude  mark  proclaiming  all  its  blank; 
As  on  some  faces  that  have  long  grown  old 


36  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

In  lifting  tapers  up  to  forms  obscene 

On  ancient  walls  and  chuckling  with  false  zest 

To  please  my  lord,  who  gives  the  larger  fee 

For  that  hard  industry  in  apishness. 

Eoldan  would  gladly  never  laugh  again ; 

Pensioned,  he  would  be  grave  as  any  ox, 

And  having  beans  and  crumbs  and  oil  secured 

Would  borrow  no  man's  jokes  forevermore. 

'T  is  harder  now  because  his  wife  is  gone, 

Who  had  quick  feet,  and  danced  to  ravishment 

Of  every  ring  jewelled  with  Spanish  eyes, 

But  died  and  left  this  boy,  lame  from  his  birth, 

And  sad  and  obstinate,  though  when  he  will 

He  sings  God-taught  such  marrow-thrilling  strains 

As  seem  the  very  voice  of  dying  Spring, 

A  flute-like  wail  that  mourns  the  blossoms  gone, 

And  sinks,  and  is  not,  like  their  fragrant  breath, 

With  fine  transition  on  the  trembling  air. 

He  sits  as  if  imprisoned  by  some  fear, 

Motionless,  with  wide  eyes  that  seem  not  made 

For  hungry  glancing  of  a  twelve-yeared  boy 

To  mark  the  living  thing  that  he  could  tease, 

But  for  the  gaze  of  some  primeval  sadness 

Dark  twin  with  light  in  the  creative  ray. 

This  little  PABLO  has  his  spangles  too, 

And  large  rosettes  to  hide  his  poor  left  foot 

Hounded  like  any  hoof  (his  mother  thought 

God  willed  it  so  to  punish  all  her  sins). 

I  said  the  souls  were  five,  —  besides  the  dog. 
But  there  was  still  a  sixth,  with  wrinkled  face, 
Grave  and  disgusted  with  all  merriment 
Not  less  than  Eoldan.     It  is  ANNIBAL, 
The  experienced  monkey  who  performs  the  tricks, 
through  the  hoops,  and  carries  round  the 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  37 

Once  full  of  sallies  and  impromptu  feats, 

Now  cautious  not  to  light  on  aught  that  's  new, 

Lest  he  be  whipped  to  do  it  o'er  again 

From  A  to  Z,  and  make  the  gentry  laugh : 

A  misanthropic  monkey,  gray  and  grim, 

Bearing  a  lot  that  has  no  remedy 

For  want  of  concert  in  the  monkey  tribe. 

We  see  the  company,  above  their  heads 
The  braided  matting,  golden  as  ripe  corn, 
Stretched  in  a  curving  strip  close  by  the  grapes, 
Elsewhere  rolled  back  to  greet  the  cooler  sky  ; 
A  fountain  near,  vase-shapen  and  broad-lipped, 
Where  timorous  birds  alight  with  tiny  feet, 
And  hesitate  and  bend  wise  listening  ears, 
And  fly  away  again  with  undipped  beak. 
On  the  stone  floor  the  juggler's  heaped-up  goods, 
Carpet  and  hoops,  viol  and  tambourine, 
Where  Annibal  sits  perched  with  brows  severe, 
A  serious  ape  whom  none  take  seriously, 
Obliged  in  this  fool's  world  to  earn  his  nuts 
By  hard  buffoonery.     We  see  them  all, 
And  hear  their  talk,  —  the  talk  of  Spanish  men, 
With  Southern  intonation,  vowels  turned 
Caressingly  between  the  consonants, 
Persuasive,  willing,  with  such  intervals 
As  music  borrows  from  the  wooing  birds, 
That  plead  with  subtly  curving,  sweet  descent,  — 
And  yet  can  quarrel,  as  these  Spaniards  can. 

JUAN  (near  the  doorway'). 

You  hear  the  trumpet  ?    There  's  old  Eamon's  blast, 

No  bray  but  his  can  shake  the  air  so  well. 

He  takes  his  trumpeting  as  solemnly 

As  angel  charged  to  wake  the  dead ;  thinks  war 


38  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Was  made  for  trumpeters,  and  their  great  art 
Made  solely  for  themselves  who  understand  it. 
His  features  all  have  shaped  themselves  to  blowing, 
And  when  his  trumpet's  bagged  or  left  at  home 
He  seems  a  chattel  in  a  broker's  booth, 
A  spoutless  watering-can,  a  promise  to  pay 
No  sum  particular.      0  fine  old  Ramon ! 
The  blasts  get  louder  and  the  clattering  hoofs ; 
They  crack  the  ear  as  well  as  heaven's  thunder 
For  owls  that  listen  blinking.     There  's  the  banner. 

HOST  (joining  him :  the  others  follow  to  the  door). 

The  Duke  has  finished  reconnoitring,  then  ? 
We  shall  hear  news.     They  say  he  means  a  sally,  — • 
Would  strike  El  Zagal's  Moors  as  they  push  home 
Like  ants  with  booty  heavier  than  themselves ; 
Then,  joined  by  other  nobles  with  their  bands, 
Lay  siege  to  Guadix.     Juan,  you  're  a  bird 
That  nest  within  the  Castle.     What  say  you  ? 

JUAN. 

Naught,  I  say  naught.      'T  is  but  a  toilsome  game 

To  bet  upon  that  feather  Policy, 

And  guess  where  after  twice  a  hundred  puffs 

'Twill  catch  another  feather  crossing  it: 

Guess  how  the  Pope  will  blow  and  how  the  king; 

What  force  my  lady's  fan  has;  how  a  cough 

Seizing  the  Padre's  throat  may  raise  a  gust, 

And  how  the  queen  may  sigh  the  feather  down. 

Such  catching  at  imaginary  threads, 

Such  spinning  twisted  air,  is  not  for  me. 

If  I  should  want  a  game,  I  '11  rather  bet 

On  racing  snails,  two  large,  slow,  lingering  snails,-— 

No  spurring,  equal  weights,  —  a  chance  sublime, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  39 

Nothing  to  guess  at,  pure  uncertainty. 

Here  comes  the  Duke.     They  give  but  feeble  shouta 

And  some  look  sour. 

HOST. 

That  spoils  a  fair  occasion. 
Civility  brings  no  conclusions  with  it, 
And  cheerful  Vivas  make  the  moments  glide 
Instead  of  grating  like  a  rusty  wheel. 

JUAN. 

0  they  are  dullards,  kick  because  they  're  stung, 
And  bruise  a  friend  to  show  they  hate  a  wasp. 


HOST. 

Best  treat  your  wasp  with  delicate  regard ; 

When   the   right   moment   comes    say,  "  By   your 

leave, " 

Use  your  heel  —  so !  and  make  an  end  of  him. 
That 's   if   we   talked   of   wasps ;  but   our  young 

Duke,  — 

Spain  holds  not  a  more  gallant  gentleman. 
Live,  live,  Duke  Silva !     'T  is  a  rare  smile  he  has, 
But  seldom  seen. 

JUAN. 

A  true  hidalgo's  smile, 
That  gives  much  favour,  but  beseeches  none. 
His  smile  is  sweetened  by  his  gravity : 
It  comes  like  dawn  upon  Sierra  snows, 
Seeming  more  generous  for  the  coldness  gone ; 
Breaks  from  the  calm,  —  a  sudden  opening  flower 
On  dark  deep  waters  :  one  moment  shrouded  close^ 


40  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

A  mystic  shrine,  the  next  a  full-rayed  star, 
Thrilling,  pulse-quickening  as  a  living  word. 
I  '11  make  a  song  of  that 

HOST. 

Prithee,  not  now. 

You  '11  fall  to  staring  like  a  wooden  saint, 
And  wag  your  head  as  it  were  set  on  wires. 
Here  's  fresh  sherbe*t.     Sit,  be  good  company. 
(To  BLASCO.)     You  are  a  stranger,  sir,  and  cannot 

know 
How  our  Duke's  nature  suits  his  princely  frame. 

BLASCO. 

Nay,  but  I  marked  his  spurs,  —  chased  cunningly ! 

A  duke  should  know  good  gold  and  silver  plate ; 

Then  he  will  know  the  quality  of  mine. 

I  've  ware  for  tables  and  for  altars  too, 

Our  Lady  in  all  sizes,  crosses,  bells : 

He  '11  need  such  weapons  full  as  much  as  swords 

If  he  would  capture  any  Moorish  town. 

Tor,  let  me  tell  you,  when  a  mosque  is  cleansed  .  .  . 

JUAN. 

The  demons  fly  so  thick  from  sound  of  bells 
And  smell  of  incense,  you  may  see  the  air 
Streaked  with  them  as  with  smoke.     Why,  they 

are  spirits : 

You  may  well  think  how  crowded  they  must  be 
To  make  a  sort  of  haze. 

BLASCO. 

I  knew  not  that. 
Still,  they  're  of  smoky  nature,  demons  are  ; 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  41 

And  since  you  say  so,  —  well,  it  proves  the  more 

The  need  of  bells  and  censers.     Ay,  your  Duke 

Sat  well :  a  true  hidalgo.     I  can  judge,  — 

Of  harness  specially.     I  saw  the  camp, 

The  royal  camp  at  Velez  Malaga. 

'T  was  like  the  court  of  heaven,  — such  liveries! 

And  torches  carried  by  the  score  at  night 

Before  the  nobles.     Sirs,  I  made  a  dish 

To  set  an  emerald  in  would  fit  a  crown, 

For  Don  Alonzo,  lord  of  Aguilar. 

Your  Duke's  no  whit  behind  him  in  his  mien 

Or  harness  either.     But  you  seem  to  say 

The  people  love  him  not. 

HOST. 

They  've  naught  against  hiiru 
But  certain  winds  will  make  men's  temper  bad. 
When  the  Solano  blows  hot  venomed  breath, 
It  acts  upon  men's  knives  :  steel  takes  to  stabbing 
Which  else,  with  cooler  winds,  were  honest  steel, 
Cutting  but  garlick.     There  's  a  wind  just  now 
Blows  right  from  Seville  — 

BLASCO. 

Ay,  you  mean  the  wind  .  .   . 
Yes,  yes,  a  wind  that 's  rather  hot  .  .  . 

HOST. 

With  fagots. 

JUAN. 

A  wind  that  suits  not  with  our  townsmen's  blood. 
Abram,  't  is  said,  objected  to  be  scorched, 
And,  as  the  learned  Arabs  vouch,  he  gave 
The  antipathy  in  full  to  Ishmael. 
'T  is  true,  these  patriarchs  had  their  oddities. 


42  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

BLASCO. 

Their  oddities  ?     I  'm  of  their  mind,  I  know. 
Though,  as  to  Abraham  and  Ishmael, 
I  'm  an  old  Christian,  and  owe  naught  to  them 
Or  any  Jew  among  them.     But  I  know 
We  made  a  stir  in  Saragossa  —  we  : 
The  men  of  Aragon  ring  hard,  • —  true  metal. 
Sirs,  I  'm  no  friend  to  heresy,  but  then 
A  Christian's  money  is  not  safe.     As  how? 
A  lapsing  Jew  or  any  heretic 
May  owe  me  twenty  ounces  :  suddenly 
He  's  prisoned,  suffers  penalties,  —  't  is  well : 
If  men  will  not  believe,  't  is  good  to  make  them, 
But  let  the  penalties  fall  on  them  alone. 
The  Jew  is  stripped,  his  goods  are  confiscate ; 
Now,  where,  I  pray  you,  go  my  twenty  ounces  ? 
God  knows,  and  perhaps  the  King  may,  but  not  I 
And  more,  my  son  may  lose  his  young  wife's  dower 
Because  'twas  promised  since  her  father's  soul 
Fell  to  wrong  thinking.     How  was  I  to  know  ? 
I  could  but  use  my  sense  and  cross  myself. 
Christian  is  Christian,  — I  give  in,  — but  still 
Taxing  is  taxing,  though  you  call  it  holy. 
We  Saragossans  liked  not  this  new  tax 
They  call  the  —  nonsense,  I  'm  from  Aragon ! 
I  speak  too  bluntly.      But,  for  Holy  Church, 
No  man  believes  more. 

HOST. 

Nay,  sir,  never  fear. 
Good  Master  Eoldan  here  is  no  delator. 

HOLD  AN  (starting  from  a  reverie). 
You  speak  to  me,  sirs  ?     I  perform  to-night  — 
The  Placa  Santiago.     Twenty  tricks, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  43 

All  different.     I  dance,  too.     And  the  boy 
Sings  like  a  bird.     I  crave  your  patronage. 

BLASCO. 

Faith,  you  shall  have  it,  sir.     In  travelling 
I  take  a  little  freedom,  and  am  gay. 
You  marked  not  what  I  said  just  now  ? 

KOLDAN. 

I?  no. 

I  pray  your  pardon.     I  've  a  twinging  knee 
That  makes  it  hard  to  listen.     You  were  saying  ? 

BLASCO. 

Nay,  it  was  naught.     (Aside  to  HOST.)     Is  it  his 
deepness  ? 

HOST. 

No. 
He  's  deep  in  nothing  but  his  poverty. 

BLASCO. 
But  'twas  his  poverty  that  made  me  think  ... 

HOST. 

His  piety  might  wish  to  keep  the  feasts 
As  well  as  fasts.     No  fear ;  he  hears  not. 

BLASCO. 

Good. 

I  speak  my  mind  about  the  penalties, 
But,  look  you,  I  'm  against  assassination. 
You  know  my  meaning  —  Master  Arbuds, 
The  grand  Inquisitor  in  Aragon. 
I  knew  naught, —  paid  no  copper  towards  the  deed. 


44  POEMS  OF   GEORGE  ELIOT. 

But  I  was  there,  at  prayers,  within  the  church. 
How  could  I  help  it  ?    Why,  the  saints  were  there, 
And  looked  straight  on  above  the  altars.     I  ... 

JUAN. 
Looked  carefully  another  way. 

BLASCO. 

Why,  at  my  beads. 

'T  was  after  midnight,  and  the  canons  all 
Were  chanting  matins.     I  was  not  in  church 
To  gape  and  stare.     I  saw  the  martyr  kneel : 
I  never  liked  the  look  of  him  alive,  — 
He  was  no  martyr  then.     I  thought  he  made 
An  ugly  shadow  as  he  crept  athwart 
The  bands  of  light,  then  passed  within  the  gloom 
By  the  broad  pillar.      'T  was  in  our  great  Seo, 
At  Saragossa.     The  pillars  tower  so  large 
You  cross  yourself  to  see  them,  lest  white  Death 
Should  hide  behind  their  dark.     And  so  it  was. 
I  looked  away  again  and  told  my  beads 
Unthinkingly  ;  but  still  a  man  has  ears ; 
And  right  across  the  chanting  came  a  sound 
As  if  a  tree  had  crashed  above  the  roar 
Of  some  great  torrent.     So  it  seemed  to  me ; 
For  when  you  listen  long  and  shut  your  eyes 
Small  sounds  get  thunderous.     And  he  'd  a  shell 
Like  any  lobster :  a  good  iron  suit 
From  top  to  toe  beneath  the  innocent  serge. 
That   made   the   telltale  sound.     But   then   came 

shrieks. 

The  chanting  stopped  and  turned  to  rushing  feet, 
And  in  the  midst  lay  Master  Arbue's, 
Felled  like  an  ox.      'T  was  wicked  butchery. 
Some  honest  men  had  hoped  it  would  have  scared 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  45 

The  Inquisition  out  of  Aragon. 

'T  was    money    thrown    away,  —  I    would    say, 

crime,  — 
Clean  thrown  away. 

HOST. 

That  was  a  pity  now. 

Next  to  a  missing  thrust,  what  irks  me  most 
Is  a  neat  well-aimed  stroke  that  kills  your  man, 
Yet  ends  in  mischief,  — as  in  Aragon. 
It  was  a  lesson  to  our  people  here. 
Else  there  's  a  monk  within  our  city  walls, 
A  holy,  high-born,  stern  Dominican, 
They  might  have  made  the  great  mistake  to  kill. 

BLASCO. 
What !  is  he  ?  .  .  . 

HOST. 

Yes ;  a  Master  Arbue's 
Of  finer  quality.     The  Prior  here 
And  uncle  to  our  Duke. 

BLASCO. 

He  will  want  place : 
A  holy  pillar  or  a  crucifix. 
But,  did  you  say,  he  was  like  Arbuds  ? 

JUAN. 

As  a  black  eagle  with  gold  beak  and  claws 

Is  like  a  raven.     Even  in  his  cowl, 

Covered  from  head  to  foot,  the  Prior  is  known 

From  all  the  black  herd  round.     When  he  uncovers 

And  stands  white-frocked,  with  ivory  face,  his  eyes 

Black -gleaming,  black  his  coronet  of  hair 

Like  shredded  jasper,  he  seems  less  a  man 


46  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

With  struggling  aims  than  pure  incarnate  Will, 

Fit  to  subdue  rebellious  nations,  nay, 

That   human   flesh  he  breathes   in,  charged  with 

passion 

Which  quivers  in  his  nostril  and  his  lip, 
But  disciplined  by  long-indwelling  will 
To  silent  labour  in  the  yoke  of  law. 
A  truce  to  thy  comparisons,  Lorenzo ! 
Thine  is  no  subtle  nose  for  difference ; 
'T  is  dulled  by  feigning  and  civility. 

HOST. 

Pooh,  thou  'rt  a  poet,  crazed  with  finding  words 

May  stick  to  things  and  seem  like  qualities. 

No  pebble  is  a  pebble  in  thy  hands : 

'T  is  a  moon  out  of  work,  a  barren  egg, 

Or  twenty  things  that  no  man  sees  but  thee. 

Our  father  Isidor  's  —  a  living  saint, 

And  that  is  heresy,  some  townsmen  think : 

Saints  should  be  dead,  according  to  the  Church. 

My  mind  is  this :  the  Father  is  so  holy 

'T  were  sin  to  wish  his  soul  detained  from  bliss. 

Easy  translation  to  the  realms  above, 

The  shortest  journey  to  the  seventh  heaven, 

Is  what  I  'd  never  grudge  him. 

BLASCO. 

Piously  said. 

Look  you,  I  'm  dutiful,  obey  the  Church 
When  there  's  no  help  for  it :  I  mean  to  say, 
When  Pope  and  Bishop  and  all  customers 
Order  alike.     But  there  be  bishops  now, 
And  were  aforetime,  who  have  held  it  wrong, 
This  hurry  to  convert  the  Jews.     As,  how  ? 
Your  Jew  pays  tribute  to  the  bishop,  say. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  47 

That 's  good,  and  must  please  God,  to  see  the  Church 
Maintained  in  ways  that  ease  the  Christian's  purse. 
Convert  the  Jew,  and  where  's  the  tribute,  pray  ? 
He  lapses,  too :  't  is  slippery  work,  conversion : 
And  then  the  holy  taxing  carries  off 
His  money  at  one  sweep.      No  tribute  more ! 
He  's  penitent  or  burnt,  and  there  's  an  end. 
Now  guess  which  pleases  God  .   .  . 

JUAN. 

Whether  he  likes 
A  well-burnt  Jew  or  well-fed  bishop  best. 

[While  Juan  put  this  problem  theologic 
Entered,  with  resonant  step,  another  guest,  — 
A  soldier :  all  his  keenness  in  his  sword, 
His  eloquence  in  scars  upon  his  cheek, 
His  virtue  in  much  slaying  of  the  Moor: 
With  brow  well-creased  in  horizontal  folds 
To  save  the  space,  as  having  naught  to  do : 
Lips  prone  to  whistle  whisperingly,  —  no  tune, 
But  trotting  rhythm  :  meditative  eyes, 
Most  often  fixed  upon  his  legs  and  spurs : 
Invited  much,  and  held  good  company : 
Styled  Captain  Lopez.] 

LOPEZ. 
At  your  service,  sirs. 

JUAN. 

Ha,  Lopez  ?    Why,  thou  hast  a  face  full-charged 
As  any  herald's.     What  news  of  the  wars  ? 

LOPEZ. 
Such  news  as  is  most  bitter  on  my  tongue. 


48  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

JUAN. 

Then  spit  it  forth. 

HOST. 

Sit,  Captain :  here  's  a  cup, 
Fresh-filled.     What  news  ? 

LOPEZ. 

'T  is  bad.     We  make  no  sally  • 
We  sit  still  here  and  wait  whate'er  the  Moor 
Shall  please  to  do. 

HOST. 
Some  townsmen  will  be  glad. 

LOPEZ. 

Glad,  will  they  be  ?    But  I  'm  not  glad,  not  I, 
Nor  any  Spanish  soldier  of  clean  blood. 
But  the  Duke's  wisdom  is  to  wait  a  siege 
Instead  of  laying  one.     Therefore  —  meantime  — 
He  will  be  married  straightway. 

HOST. 

Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Thy  speech  is  like  an  hourglass ;  turn  it  down 
The  other  way,  't  will  stand  as  well,  and  say 
The  Duke  will  wed,  therefore  he  waits  a  siege. 
But  what  say  Don  Diego  and  the  Prior  ? 
The  holy  uncle  and  the  fiery  Don  ? 

LOPEZ. 

Oh  there  be  sayings  running  all  abroad 
As  thick  as  nuts  o'erturned.     No  man  need  lack. 
Some  say,  'twas  letters  changed  the  Duke's  intent: 
From  Malaga,  says  Bias.    From  Rome,  says  Quintin. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  49 

From  spies  at  Guadix,  says  Sebastian. 
Some  say,  't  is  all  a  pretext,  —  say,  the  Duke 
Is  but  a  lapdog  hanging  on  a  skirt, 
Turning  his  eyeballs  upward  like  a  monk : 
'T  was  Don  Diego  said  that,  —  so  says  Bias ; 
Last  week,  he  said  .  .  . 

JUAN. 

Oh  do  without  the  "  said  " ! 
Open  thy  mouth  and  pause  in  lieu  of  it. 
I  had  as  lief  be  pelted  with  a  pea 
Irregularly  in  the  selfsame  spot 
As  hear  such  iteration  without  rule, 
Such  torture  of  uncertain  certainty. 

LOPEZ. 

Santiago !  Juan,  thou  art  hard  to  please. 
I  speak  not  for  my  own  delighting,  I. 
I  can  be  silent,  I. 

BLASCO. 

Nay,  sir,  speak  on! 

I  like  your  matter  well.     I  deal  in  plate. 
This  wedding  touches  me.      Who  is  the  bride  ? 

LOPEZ. 

One  that  some  say  the  Duke  does  ill  to  wed. 

One  that  his  mother  reared  —  God  rest  her  soul !  — 

Duchess  Diana,  — she  who  died  last  year. 

A  bird  picked  up  away  from  any  nest. 

Her  name  —  the  Duchess  gave  it  —  is  Fedalma. 

No   harm  in  that.       But   the   Duke  stoops,  they 

say, 
In  wedding  her.     And  that 's  the  simple  truth. 


50  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

JUAN. 

Thy  simple  truth  is  but  a  false  opinion : 
The  simple  truth  of  asses  who  believe 
Their  thistle  is  the  very  best  of  food. 
Fie,  Lopez,  thou  a  Spaniard  with  a  sword 
Dreamest  a  Spanish  noble  ever  stoops 
By  doing  honour  to  the  maid  he  loves! 
He  stoops  alone  when  he  dishonours  her. 

LOPEZ. 
Nay,  I  said  naught  against  her. 

JUAN. 

Better  not. 

Else  I  would  challenge  thee  to  fight  with  wits, 
And   spear   thee   through   and   through   ere    thou 

couldst  draw 

The  bluntest  word.      Yes,  yes,  consult  thy  spurs : 
Spurs  are  a  sign  of  knighthood,  and  should  tell  thee 
That  knightly  love  is  blent  with  reverence 
As  heavenly  air  is  blent  with  heavenly  blue. 
Don  Silva's  heart  beats  to  a  chivalric  tune : 
He  wills  no  highest-born  Custilian  dame, 
Betrothed  to  highest  noble,  should  be  held 
More  sacred  than  Fedalma.     He  enshrines 
Her  virgin  image  for  the  general  worship 
And  for  his  own,  —  will  guard  her  from  the  world, 
Nay,  his  profaner  self,  lest  he  should  lose 
The  place  of  his  religion.     He  does  well. 
Naught  can  come  closer  to  the  poets'  strain. 

HOST. 

Or  further  from  their  practice,  Juan,  eh  ? 
If  thou  'rt  a  specimen  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  51 

JUAN. 

Wrong,  my  Lorenzo' 
Touching  Fedalma  the  poor  poet  plays 
A  finer  part  even  than  the  noble  Duke. 

LOPEZ. 

By  making  ditties,  singing  with  round  mouth 
Likest  a  crowing  cock  ?     Thou  meanest  that  ? 

JUAN. 

Lopez,  take  physic,  thou  art  getting  ill, 
Growing  descriptive  ;  't  is  unnatural 
I  mean,  Don  Silva's  love  expects  reward, 
Kneels  with  a  heaven  to  come ;  but  the  poor  poet 
Worships  without  reward,  nor  hopes  to  find 
A  heaven  save  in  his  worship.     He  adores 
The  sweetest  woman  for  her  sweetness'  sake, 
Joys  in  the  love  that  was  not  born  for  him, 
Because  'tis  lovingness,  as  beggars  joy, 
Warming  their  naked  limbs  on  wayside  walLs, 
To  hear  a  tale  of  princes  and  their  glory. 
There  's  a  poor  poet  (poor,  I  mean,  in  coin) 
Worships  Fedalma  with  so  true  a  love 
That  if  her  silken  robe  were  changed  for  rags, 
And  she  were  driven  out  to  stony  wilds 
Barefoot,  a  scorned  wanderer,  he  would  kiss 
Her  ragged  garment's  edge,  and  only  ask 
For  leave  to  be  her  slave.     Digest  that,  friendj 
Or  let  it  lie  upon  thee  as  a  weight 
To  check  light  thinking  of  Fedalma. 

LOPEZ. 

I? 

I  think  no  harm  of  her ;  I  thank  the  saints 
I  wear  a  sword  and  peddle  not  in  thinking. 


52  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

'T  is  Father  Marcos  says  she  '11  not  confess 
And  loves  not  holy  water ;  says  her  blood 
Is  infidel;  says  the  Duke's  wedding  her 
Is  union  of  light  with  darkness. 

JUAN. 

Tush! 

[Now  Juan  —  who  by  snatches  touched  his  lute 
With  soft  arpeggio,  like  a  whispered  dream 
Of  sleeping  music,  while  he  spoke  of  love,  — 
In  jesting  anger  at  the  soldier's  talk 
Thrummed  loud   and  fast,  then  faster  and   more 

loud, 

Till,  as  he  answered,  "  Tush !  "  he  struck  a  chord 
Sudden  as  whip-crack  close  by  Lopez'  ear. 
Mine  host  and  Blasco  smiled,  the  mastiff  barked, 
Roldan  looked  up  and  Annibal  looked  down, 
Cautiously  neutral  in  so  new  a  case ; 
The  boy  raised  longing,  listening  eyes  that  seemed 
An  exiled  spirit's  waiting  in  strained  hope 
Of  voices  coming  from  the  distant  land. 
But  Lopez  bore  the  assault  like  any  rock : 
That  was  not  what  he  drew  his  sword  at  —  he ! 
He  spoke  with  neck  erect.  ] 

LOPEZ. 

If  that  's  a  hint 

The  company  should  ask  thee  for  a  song, 
Sing,  then! 

HOST. 

Ay,  Juan,  sing,  and  jar  no  more. 
Something  brand  new.     Thou  'rt  wont  to  make  my 

ear 
A  test  of  novelties.     Hast  thou  aught  fresh  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  53 

JUAN. 

As  fresh  as  rain-drops.     Here  's  a  Cancion 
Springs  like  a  tiny  mushroom  delicate 
Out  of  the  priest's  foul  scandal  of  Fedalma, 

[He  preluded  with  questioning  intervals, 
Rising,  then  falling  just  a  semitone, 
In  minor  cadence,  —  sound  with  poisdd  wing 
Hovering  and  quivering  towards  the  needed  fall 
Then  in  a  voice  that  shook  the  willing  air 
With  masculine  vibration  sang  this  song. 

Should  I  long  that  dark  were  fair  1 

Say,  0  song  ! 

Lacks  my  love  aught,  that  I  should  long  ? 

Dark  the  night,  with  breath  all  flow 'rs, 

And  tender  broken  voice  that  fills 

With  ravishment  the  listening  hours : 

Whisperings,  wooings, 

Liquid  ripples  and  soft  ring-dove  cooings 

In  low-toned  rhythm  that  love's  aching  stills. 

Dark  the  night, 

Yet  is  she  bright, 

For  in  her  dark  she  brings  the  mystic  star,- 

Trembling  yet  strong,  as  is  the  voice  of  love, 

from  some  unknown  afar. 

0  radiant  Dark  I     0  darkly  fostered  ray  ! 

Thou  hast  a  joy  too  deep  for  shallow  Day. 

While  Juan  sang,  all  round  the  tavern  court 

Gathered  a  constellation  of  black  eyes. 

Fat  Lola  leaned  upon  the  balcony 

With  arms  that  might  have  pillowed  Hercules 


54  POEMS  OF   GEORGE  ELIOT. 

(Who  built,  'tis   known,  the    mightiest   Spanish 

towns) ; 

Thin  Alda's  face,  sad  as  a  wasted  passion, 
Leaned  o'er  the  nodding  baby's;   'twixt  the  rails 
The  little  Pepe  showed  his  two  black  beads, 
His  flat-ringed  hair  and  small  Semitic  nose 
Complete  and  tiny  as  a  new-born  minnow ; 
Patting  his  head  and  holding  in  her  arms 
The  baby  senior,  stood  Lorenzo's  wife 
All  negligent,  her  kerchief  discomposed 
By  little  clutches,  woman's  coquetry 
Quite  turned  to  mother's  cares  and  sweet  content. 
These  on  the  balcony,  while  at  the  door 
Gazed  the  lank  boys  and  lazy -shouldered  men. 
'T  is  likely  too  the  rats  and  insects  peeped, 
Being  southern  Spanish  ready  for  a  lounge. 
The  singer  smiled,  as  doubtless  Orpheus  smiled, 
To  see  the  animals  both  great  and  small, 
The  mountainous  elephant  and  scampering  mouse, 
Held  by  the  ears  in  decent  audience ; 
Then,    when   mine    host    desired   the   strain  once 

more, 

He  fell  to  preluding  with  rhythmic  change 
Of  notes  recurrent,  soft  as  pattering  drops 
That  fall  from  off  the  eaves  in  faery  dance 
When  clouds  are  breaking ;  till  at  measured  pause 
He  struck,  in  rare  responsive  chords,  a  retrain.] 

HOST. 

Come,  then,  a  gayer  romaunt,  if  thou  wilt : 

I  quarrel  not  with  change.    What  say  you,  Captain  ? 

LOPEZ. 

All  's  one  to  me.     I  note  no  change  of  tune, 
Not  I,  save  in  the  ring  of  horses'  hoofs, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPS1  55 

Or  in  the  drums  and  trumpets  when  they  call 
To  action  or  retreat.     I  ne'er  could  see 
The  good  of  singing. 

BLASCO. 

Why,  it  passes  time,  — 

Saves  you  from  getting  over-wise  :  that  's  good. 
For,  look  you,  fools  are  merry  here  below, 
Yet  they  will  go  to  heaven  all  the  same, 
Having  the  sacraments ;  and,  look  you,  heaven 
Is  a  long  holiday,  and  solid  men, 
Used  to  much  business,  might  be  ill  at  ease 
Not  liking  play.      And  so  in  travelling 
I  shape  myself  betimes  to  idleness 
And  take  fools'  pleasures  .  .   . 

HOST. 

Hark,  the  song  begins' 

JUAN  (sings). 
Maiden,  crowned  with  glossy  blackness, 

Lithe  as  panther  forest-roaming, 
Long-armed  naiad,  when  she  dances, 
On  a  stream  of  ether  floating, — 
Bright,  0  bright  Fedalma  ! 

Form  all  curves  like  softness  drifted, 
Wave-kissed  marble  roundly  dimpling, 

Far-off  music  slowly  winged, 
Gently  rising,  gently  sinking,  — 
Bright,  0  bright  Fedalma  ! 

Pure  as  rain-tear  on  a  rose-leaf, 

Cloud  high-born  in  noonday  spotless, 

Sudden  perfect  as  the  dew-bead, 
Gem  of  earth  and  sky  begotten,  — 
Bright,  0  bright  Fedalma  ! 


$6  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Beauty  has  no  mortal  father, 
Holy  light  her  form  engendered 

Out  of  tremor,  yearning,  gladness, 
Presage  sweet  and  joy  remembered, — 
Child  of  Light,  Fedalma  / 

BLASCO. 

Faith,  a  good  song,  sung  to  a  stirring  tune. 
I  like  the  words  returning  in  a  round ; 
It  gives  a  sort  of  sense.     Another  such ! 

KOLDAN  (rising\ 

Sirs,  you  will  hear  my  boy.      'T  is  very  hard 
When  gentles  sing  for  naught  to  all  the  town. 
How  can  a  poor  man  live  ?     And  now  't  is  time 
I  go  to  the  Placja,  —  who  will  give  me  pence 
When  he  can  hear  hidalgos  and  give  naught  ? 

JUAN. 

True,  friend.     Be  pacified.     I  '11  sing  no  more. 
Go  thou,  and  we  will  follow.     Never  fear. 
My  voice  is  common  as  the  ivy  leaves, 
Plucked  in  all  seasons,  —  bears  no  price  ;  the  boy's 
Is  like  the  almond  blossoms.     Ah,  he  's  lame ! 

HOST. 

Load  him  not  heavily.  Here,  Pedro !  help. 
Go  with  them  to  the  Pla^a,  take  the  hoops. 
The  sights  will  pay  thee. 

BLASCO. 

I  '11  be  there  anon, 

And  set  the  fashion  with  a  good  white  coin. 
But  let  us  see  as  well  as  hear. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  57 

HOST. 

Ay,  prithee. 
Some  tricks,  a  dance. 

BLASCO. 

Yes,  't  is  more  rational. 

RoLDAN  (turning  round  with  the  bundle  and  monkey 
on  his  shoulders). 

You  shall  see  all,  sirs.     There  's  no  man  in  Spain 
Knows  his  art  better.     I  've  a  twinging  knee 
Oft  hinders  dancing,  and  the  boy  is  lame. 
But  no  man's  monkey  has  more  tricks  than  mine. 

[At  this  high  praise  the  gloomy  Annibal, 

Mournful  professor  of  high  drollery, 

Seemed  to  look  gloomier,  and  the  little  troop 

Went  slowly  out,  escorted  from  the  door 

By  all  the  idlers.     From  the  balcony 

Slowly  subsided  the  black  radiance 

Of  agate  eyes,  and  broke  in  chattering  sounds, 

Coaxings   and   trampings,    and   the   small   hoarse 

squeak 
Of  Pepe's  reed.     And  our  group  talked  again.] 

HOST. 

I  '11  get  this  juggler,  if  he  quits  him  well, 
An  audience  here  as  choice  as  can  be  lured. 
For  me,  when  a  poor  devil  does  his  best, 
'T  is  my  delight  to  soothe  his  soul  with  praise. 
What  though  the  best  be  bad  ?  remains  the  good 
Of  throwing  food  to  a  lean  hungry  dog. 
I  'd  give  up  the  best  jugglery  in  life 
To  see  a  miserable  juggler  pleased. 


58  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

But  that  's  my  humour.     Crowds  are  malcontent* 
And  cruel  as  the  Holy  .  .  .   Shall  we  go  ? 
All  of  us  now  together  ? 

LOPEZ. 

Well,  not  I. 

I  may  be  there  anon,  but  first  I  go 
To  the  lower  prison.     There  is  strict  command 
That  all  our  Gypsy  prisoners  shall  to-night 
Be  lodged  within  the  fort.     They  've  forged  enough 
Of  balls  and  bullets,  —  used  up  all  the  metal. 
At  morn  to-morrow  they  must  carry  stones 
Up  the  south  tower.      'T  is  a  fine  stalwart  band, 
Fit  for  the  hardest  tasks.     Some  say,  the  queen 
Would  have  the  Gypsies  banished  with  the  Jews. 
Some  say,  't  were  better  harness  them  for  work. 
They  'd  feed  on  any  filth  and  save  the  Spaniard. 
Some  say  —  but  I  must  go.      'T  will  soon  be  time 
To  head  the  escort.     We  shall  meet  again. 

BLASCO. 

Go,  sir,  with  God  (exit  LOPEZ).   A  very  proper  man, 

And  soldierly.     But,  for  this  banishment 

Some  men  are  hot  on,  it  ill  pleases  me. 

The  Jews,  now  (sirs,  if  any  Christian  here 

Had  Jews  for  ancestors,  I  blame  him  not; 

We  cannot  all  be  Goths  of  Aragon),  — 

Jews  are  not  fit  for  heaven,  but  on  earth 

They  are  most  useful.      'T  is  the  same  with  mules, 

Horses,  or  oxen,  or  with  any  pig 

Except  Saint  Anthony's.     They  are  useful  here 

(The  Jews,  I  mean)  though  they  may  go  to  hell. 

And,  look  you,  useful  sins,  —  why  Providence 

Sends  Jews  to  do  'em,  saving  Christian  souls. 

The  very  Gypsies,  curbed  and  harnessed  well, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  59 

Would  make  draught  cattle,  feed  on  vermin  too, 

Cost  less  than  grazing  brutes,  and  turn  bad  food 

To  handsome  carcasses ;  sweat  at  the  forge 

For  little  wages,  and  well  drilled  and  flogged 

Might  work  like  slaves,  some  Spaniards  looking  on. 

I  deal  in  plate,  and  am  no  priest  to  say 

What  God  may  mean,  save  when  he  means  plain 

sense ; 

But  when  he  sent  the  Gypsies  wandering 
In  punishment  because  they  sheltered  not 
Our  Lady  and  Saint  Joseph  (and  no  doubt 
Stole  the  small  ass  they  fled  with  into  Egypt), 
Why  send  them  here  ?     'T  is  plain  he  saw  the  use 
They  'd  be  to  Spaniards.     Shall  we  banish  them, 
And  tell  God  we  know  better  ?     'T  is  a  sin. 
They  talk  of  vermin ;  but,  sirs,  vermin  large 
Were  made  to  eat  the  small,  or  else  to  eat 
The  noxious  rubbish,  and  picked  Gypsy  men 
Might  serve  in  war  to  climb,  be  killed,  and  fall, 
To  make  an  easy  ladder.     Once  I  saw 
A  Gypsy  sorcerer,  at  a  spring  and  grasp, 
Kill  one  who  came  to  seize  him :  talk  of  strength ! 
Nay,  swiftness  too,  for  while  we  crossed  ourselves 
He  vanished  like  —  say,  like  .  .   . 

JUAN. 

A  swift  black  snake, 
Or  like  a  living  arrow  fledged  with  will. 

BLASCO. 
Why,  did  you  see  him,  pray  ? 

JUAN. 

Not  then,  but  now 
As  painters  see  the  many  in  the  one. 
We  have  a  Gypsy  in  Bedrnar  whose  frame 


60  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Nature  compacted  with  such  fine  selection, 

'T  would  yield  a  dozen  types  :  all  Spanish  knights. 

From  him  who  slew  Rolando  at  the  pass 

Up  to  the  mighty  Cid ;  all  deities, 

Thronging  Olympus  in  fine  attitudes ; 

Or  all  hell's  heroes  whom  the  poet  saw 

Tremble  like  lions,  writhe  like  demigods. 

HOST. 

Pause  not  yet,  Juan,  —  more  hyperbole! 
Shoot  upward  still  and  flare  in  meteors 
Before  thou  sink  to  earth  in  dull  brown  fact. 

BLASCO. 

Nay,  give  me  fact,  high  shooting  suits  not  me. 
I  never  stare  to  look  for  soaring  larks. 
What  is  this  Gypsy  ? 

HOST. 

Chieftain  of  a  band, 

The  Moor's  allies,  whom  full  a  month  ago 
Our  Duke  surprised  and  brought  as  captives  home. 
He  needed  smiths,  and  doubtless  the  brave  Moor 
Has  missed  some  useful  scouts  and  archers  too. 
Juan's  fantastic  pleasure  is  to  watch 
These  Gypsies  forging,  and  to  hold  discourse 
With  this   great   chief,    whom   he    transforms   at 

will 

To  sage  or  warrior,  and  like  the  sun 
Plays  daily  at  fallacious  alchemy, 
Turns  sand  to  gold  and  dewy  spider-webs 
To  myriad  rainbows.      Still  the  sand  is  sand, 
And  still  in  sober  shade  you  see  the  web. 
'T  is  so,  I'll  wager,  with  his  Gypsy  chief,  — 
A  piece  of  stalwart  cunning,  nothing  more. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  61 

JUAN. 

No !  My  invention  had  been  all  too  poor 
To  frame  this  Zarca  as  I  saw  him  first. 
'T  was  when    they  stripped    him.      In   his    chief- 
tain's gear, 

Amidst  his  men  he  seemed  a  royal  barb 
Followed  by  wild-maned  Andalusian  colts. 
He  had  a  necklace  of  a  strange  device 
In  finest  gold  of  unknown  workmanship, 
But  delicate  as  Moorish,  fit  to  kiss 
Fedalma's  neck,  and  play  in  shadows  there. 
He  wore  fine  mail,  a  rich-wrought  sword  and  belt, 
And  on  his  surcoat  black  a  broidered  torch, 
A  pine-branch  flaming,  grasped  by  two  dark  hands. 
But  when  they  stripped  him  of  his  ornaments 
It  was  the  bawbles  lost  their  grace,  not  he. 
His  eyes,  his  mouth,  his  nostril,  all  inspired 
With  scorn  that  mastered  utterance  of  scorn, 
With  power  to  check  all  rage  until  it  turned 
To  ordered  force,  unleashed  on  chosen  prey,  — 
It  seemed  the  soul  within  him  made  his  limbs 
And   made  them  grand.     The  bawbles  were  well 

gone. 
He  stood  the  more  a  king,  when  bared  to  man. 

BLASCO. 

Maybe.     But  nakedness  is  bad  for  trade, 
And  is  not  decent.     Well-wrought  metal,  sir, 
Is  not  a  bawble.     Had  you  seen  the  camp, 
The  royal  camp  at  Velez  Malaga, 
Ponce  de  Leon  and  the  other  dukes, 
The  king  himself  and  all  his  thousand  knights 
For  body-guard,  't  would  not  have  left  you  breath 
To  praise  a  Gypsy  thus.     A  man's  a  man; 


62  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

But  when  you  see  a  king,  you  see  the  work 
Of  many  thousand  men.      King  Ferdinand 
Bears  a  fine  presence,  and  hath  proper  limbs ; 
But  what  though  he  were  shrunken  as  a  relic  ? 
You  'd  see  the  gold  and  gems  that  cased  him  o'er, 
And  all  the  pages  round  him  in  brocade, 
And  all  the  lords,  themselves  a  sort  of  kings, 
Doing  him  reverence.     That  strikes  an  awe 
Into  a  common  man, — especially 
A  judge  of  plate. 

HOST. 

Faith,  very  wisely  said. 
Purge  thy  speech,  Juan.     It  is  over-full 
Of  this  same  Gypsy.     Praise  the  Catholic  King. 
And  come  now,  let  us  see  the  juggler's  skill. 

The  Placa  Santiago. 

'T  is  daylight  still,  but  now  the  golden  cross 
Uplifted  by  the  angel  on  the  dome 
Stands  rayless  in  calm  colour  clear-defined 
Against  the  northern  blue ;  from  turrets  high 
The  flitting  splendour  sinks  with  folded  wing 
Dark -hid  till  morning,  and  the  battlements 
Wear  soft  relenting  whiteness  mellowed  o'er 
By  summers  generous  and  winters  bland. 
Now  in  the  east  the  distance  casts  its  veil, 
And  gazes  with  a  deepening  earnestness. 
The  old  rain-fretted  mountains  in  their  robes 
Of  shadow-broken  gray ;  the  rounded  hills 
Reddened  with  blood  of  Titans,  whose  huge  limbs. 
Entombed  within,  feed  full  the  hardy  flesh 
Of  cactus  green  and  blue,  broad-sworded  aloes ; 
The  cypress  soaring  black  above  the  lines 
Of  white  court-walls ;  the  jointed  sugar-canes 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  63 

Pale-golden  with  their  feathers  motionless 

In  the  warm  quiet;  —  all  thought-teaching  form 

Utters  itself  in  firm  unshimmering  hues. 

For  the  great  rock  has  screened  the  westering  sun 

That  still  on  plains  beyond  streams  vaporous  gold 

Among  the  branches ;  and  within  Bedmar 

Has  come  the  time  of  sweet  serenity 

When  colour  glows  unglittering,  and  the  soul 

Of  visible  things  shows  silent  happiness, 

As  that  of  lovers  trusting  though  apart. 

The     ripe-cheeked     fruits,    the    crimson-petalled 

flowers ; 

The  winge'd  life  that  pausing  seems  a  gem 
Cunningly  carven  on  the  dark  green  leaf ; 
The  face  of  man  with  hues  supremely  blent 
To  difference  fine  as  of  a  voice  'mid  sounds :  — 
Each  lovely  light-dipped  thing  seems  to  emerge 
Flushed  gravely  from  baptismal  sacrament. 
All  beauteous  existence  rests,  yet  wakes, 
Lies  still,  yet  conscious,  with  clear  open  eyes 
And  gentle  breath  and  mild  suffused  joy. 
'T  is  day,  but  day  that  falls  like  melody 
Repeated  on  a  string  with  graver  tones, — 
Tones  such  as  linger  in  a  long  farewell. 

The  Plaqa  widens  in  the  passive  air, — 
The  Pla<ja  Santiago,  where  the  church, 
A  mosque  converted,  shows  an  eyeless  face 
Eed-checkered,  faded,  doing  penance  still, — 
Bearing  with  Moorish  arch  the  imaged  saint, 
Apostle,  baron,  Spanish  warrior, 
Whose  charger's  hoofs  trample  the  turbaned  dead, 
Whose  banner  with  the  Cross,  the  bloody  sword, 
Flashes  athwart  the  Moslem's  glazing  eye, 
And  mocks  his  trust  in  Allah  who  forsakes. 


64  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Up  to  the  church  the  Plaga  gently  slopes, 
In  shape  most  like  the  pious  palmer's  shell, 
Girdled  with  low  white  houses  ;  high  above 
Tower  the  strong  fortress  and  sharp-angled  wall 
And  well-flanked  castle  gate.      From  o'er  the  roofs, 
And  from  the  shadowed  patios  cool,  there  spreads 
The  breath  of  flowers  and  aromatic  leaves 
Soothing  the  sense  with  bliss  indefinite, — 
A  baseless  hope,  a  glad  presentiment, 
That  curves  the  lip  more  softly,  fills  the  eye 
With  more  indulgent  beam.     And  so  it  soothes, 
So  gently  sways  the  pulses  of  the  crowd 
Who  make  a  zone  about  the  central  spot 
Chosen  by  Roldan  for  his  theatre. 
Maids  with  arched  eyebrows,  delicate-pencilled,  dark, 
Fold  their  round  arms  below  the  kerchief  full ; 
Men  shoulder  little  girls ;  and  grandames  gray, 
But  muscular  still,  hold  babies  on  their  arms ; 
While  mothers  keep  the  stout-legged  boys  in  front 
Against  their  skirts,  as  old  Greek  pictures  show 
The  Glorious  Mother  with  the  Boy  divine. 
Youths  keep  the  places  for  themselves,  and  roll 
Large  lazy  eyes,  and  call  recumbent  dogs 
(For  reasons  deep  below  the  reach  of  thought). 
The  old  men  cough  with  purpose,  wish  to  hint 
Wisdom  within  that  cheapens  jugglery, 
Maintain  a  neutral  air,  and  knit  their  brows 
In  observation.      None  are  quarrelsome, 
Noisy,  or  very  merry  ;  for  their  blood 
Moves  slowly  into  fervour,  — they  rejoice 
Like  those  dark  birds  that  sweep  with  heavy  wing, 
Cheering  their  mates  with  melancholy  cries. 

But  now  the  gilded  balls  begin  to  play 

In  rhythmic  numbers,  ruled  by  practice  fine 


THE  SPANISH   GYPSY.  65 

Of  eye  and  muscle :  all  the  juggler's  form 
Consents  harmonious  in  swift-gliding  change, 
Easily  forward  stretched  or  backward  bent 
With  lightest  step  and  movement  circular 
Eound  a  fixed   point :    't  is    not  the   old   Eoldan 

now, 

The  dull,  hard,  weary,  miserable  man, 
The  soul  all  parched  to  languid  appetite 
And  memory  of  desire  :  't  is  wondrous  force 
That  moves  in  combination  multiform 
Towards  conscious  ends  :  't  is  Eoldan  glorious. 
Holding  all  eyes  like  any  meteor, 
King  of  the  moment  save  when  Annibal 
Divides  the  scene  and  plays  the  comic  part, 
Gazing  with  blinking  glances  up  and  down, 
Dancing  and  throwing  naught  and  catching  it> 
With  mimicry  as  merry  as  the  tasks 
Of  penance-working  shades  in  Tartarus. 

Pablo  stands  passive,  and  a  space  apart, 

Holding  a  viol,  waiting  for  command. 

Music  must  not  be  wasted,  but  must  rise 

As  needed  climax ;  and  the  audience 

Is  growing  with  late  comers.      Juan  now, 

And  the  familiar  Host,  with  Blasco  broad, 

Find  way  made  gladly  to  the  inmost  round 

Studded  with  heads.      Lorenzo  knits  the  crowd 

Into  one  family  by  showing  all 

Good-will  and  recognition.      Juan  casts 

His  large  and  rapid-measuring  glance  around ; 

But  —  with  faint  quivering,  transient  as  a  breath 

Shaking  a  flame  — his  eyes  make  sudden  pause 

Where  by  the  jutting  angle  of  a  street 

Castle-ward  leading,  stands  a  female  form, 

A  kerchief  pale  square-drooping  o'er  the  brow, 

VOL.  I.  —  5 


66  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

About  her  shoulders  dim  brown  serge,  —  in  garb 
Most  like  a  peasant-woman  from  the  vale, 
Who  might  have  lingered  after  marketing 
To  see  the  show.      What  thrill  mysterious, 
Ray-borne  from  orb  to  orb  of  conscious  eyes, 
The  swift  observing  sweep  of  Juan's  glance 
Arrests  an  instant,  then  with  prompting  fresh 
Diverts  it  lastingly  ?     He  turns  at  once 
To  watch  the  gilded  balls,  and  nod  and  smile 
At  little  round  Pepita,  blondest  maid 
In  all  Bedmar,  —  Pepita,  fair  yet  flecked, 
Saucy  of  lip  and  nose,  of  hair  as  red 
As  breasts  of  robins  stepping  on  the  snow,  — 
Who  stands  in  front  with  little  tapping  feet, 
And  baby-dimpled  hands  that  hide  enclosed 
Those  sleeping  crickets,  the  dark  castanets. 
But  soon  the  gilded  balls  have  ceased  to  play, 
And  Annibal  is  leaping  through  the  hoops 
That  turn  to  twelve,  meeting  him  as  he  flies 
In  the  swift  circle.      Shuddering  he  leaps, 
But  with  each  spring  flies  swift  and  swifter  still 
To  loud  and  louder  shouts,  while  the  great  hoops 
Are  changed  to  smaller.     Now  the  crowd  is  fired. 
The  motion  swift,  the  living  victim  urged, 
The  imminent  failure  and  repeated  scape 
Hurry  all  pulses  and  intoxicate 
With  subtle  wine  of  passion  many-mixt. 
'T  is  all  about  a  monkey  leaping  hard 
Till  near  to  gasping ;  but  it  serves  as  well 
As  the  great  circus  or  arena  dire, 
Where  these  are  lacking.      Eoldan  cautiously 
Slackens  the  leaps  and  lays  the  hoops  to  rest, 
And  Annibal  retires  with  reeling  brain 
And    backward    stagger,  —  pity,     he    could    not 
smile ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  67 

Now  Eoldan  spreads  his  carpet,  now  he  shows 

Strange  metamorphoses  :  the  pebble  black 

Changes  to  whitest  egg  within  his  hand ; 

A  staring  rabbit,  with  retreating  ears, 

Is  swallowed  by  the  air  and  vanishes ; 

He  tells  men's  thoughts  about  the  shaken  dice, 

Their  secret   choosings;    makes  the  white  beans 

pass 

With  causeless  act  sublime  from  cup  to  cup 
Turned  empty  on  the  ground,  —  diablerie 
That  pales  the  girls  and  puzzles  all  the  boys : 
These  tricks  are  samples,  hinting  to  the  town 
Eoldan 's  great  mastery.     He  tumbles  next, 
And  Annibal  is  called  to  mock  each  feat 
With  arduous  comicality  and  save 
By  rule  romantic  the  great  public  mind 
(And  Roldan's  body)  from  too  serious  strain. 

But  with  the  tumbling,  lest  the  feats  should  fail, 

And  so  need  veiling  in  a  haze  of  sound, 

Pablo  awakes  the  viol  and  the  bow, — 

The  masculine  bow  that  draws  the  woman's  heart 

From  out  the  strings  and  makes  them  cry,  yearn, 

plead, 

Tremble,  exult,  with  mystic  union 
Of  joy  acute  and  tender  suffering. 
To  play  the  viol  and  discreetly  mix 
Alternate  with  the  bow's  keen  biting  tones 
The  throb  responsive  to  the  finger's  touch, 
Was  rarest  skill  that  Pablo  half  had  caught 
From  an  old  blind  and  wandering  Catalan ; 
The  other  half  was  rather  heritage 
From  treasure  stored  by  generations  past 
In  winding  chambers  of  receptive  sense. 


68  POEMS  OF   GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  winged  sounds  exalt  the  thick -pressed  crowd 
With  a  new  pulse  in  common,  blending  all 
The  gazing  life  into  one  larger  soul 
With  dimly  widened  consciousness  :  as  waves 
In  heightened  movement  tell  of  waves  far  off. 
And  the  light  changes  ;  westward  stationed  clouds, 
The    sun's    ranged    outposts,    luminous    message 

spread, 

Housing  quiescent  things  to  doff  their  shade 
And  show  themselves  as  added  audience. 
Now  Pablo,  letting  fall  the  eager  bow, 
Solicits  softer  murmurs  from  the  strings, 
And  now  above  them  pours  a  wondrous  voice 
(Such  as  Greek  reapers  heard  in  Sicily) 
With  wounding  rapture  in  it,  like  love's  arrows; 
And  clear  upon  clear  air  as  coloured  gems 
Dropped  in  a  crystal  cup  of  water  pure, 
Fall  words  of  sadness,  simple,  lyrical : 

Spring  comes  liitlier, 

Buds  the  rose  ; 
Roses  wither, 

Sweet  spring  goes. 
Ojald,  would  she  carry  me  ! 

Summer  soars,  — 

Wide-winged  day 
White  light  pours, 

Flies  away. 
Ojald,  would  he  carry  me  I 

Soft  winds  Now, 

Westward  born, 
Onward  go 

Toward  the  morn. 
Ojald,  would  they  carry  me  ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPS?.  69 

Sweet  birds  sing 

O'er  the  graves, 
Then  take  wing 

O'er  the  waves. 
Oj'ald,  would  they  carry  me  ! 

When  the  voice  paused  and  left  the  viol's  note 
To  plead  forsaken,  't  was  as  when  a  cloud, 
Hiding  the  sun,  makes  all  the  leaves  and  flowers 
Shiver.     But  when  with  measured  change  the  strings 
Had  taught  regret  new  longing,  clear  again, 
Welcome  as  hope  recovered,  flowed  the  voice. 

Warm  whispering  through  the  slender  olive  leaves 
Came  to  me  a  gentle  sound, 
Whispering  of  a  secret  found 

In  the  clear  sunshine  'mid  the  golden  sheaves : 

Said  it  was  sleeping  for  me  in  the  morn, 
Called  it  gladness,  called  it  joy, 
Drew  me  on  —  "  Come  hither,  boy  "  — 

To  where  the  Uue  wings  rested  on  the  corn. 

I  thought  the  gentle  sound  had  whispered  true,  — 
Thought  the  little  heaven  mine, 
Leaned  to  clutch  the  thing  divine, 

And  saw  the  blue  wings  melt  within  the  blue. 

The  long  notes  linger  on  the  trembling  air, 

With  subtle  penetration  enter  all 

The  myriad  corridors  of  the  passionate  soul, 

Message-like  spread,  and  answering  action  rouse. 

Not  angular  jigs  that  warm  the  chilly  limbs 

In  hoary  northern  mists,  but  action  curved 

To  soft  andante  strains  pitched  plaintively. 

Vibrations  sympathetic  stir  all  limbs  : 

Old  men  live  backward  in  their  dancing  prime,  - 


70  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  move  in  memory ;  small  legs  and  arms 

With  pleasant  agitation  purposeless 

Go  up  and  down  like  pretty  fruits  in  gales. 

All  long  in  common  for  the  expressive  act 

Yet  wait  for  it ;  as  in  the  olden  time 

Men  waited  for  the  bard  to  tell  their  thought. 

"  The  dance !  the  dance !  "  is  shouted  all  around. 

Now  Pablo  lifts  the  bow,  Pepita  now, 

Ready  as  bird  that  sees  the  sprinkled  corn, 

When  Juan  nods  and  smiles,  puts  forth  her  foot 

And  lifts  her  arm  to  wake  the  castanets. 

Juan  advances,  too,  from  out  the  ring 

And  bends  to  quit  his  lute ;  for  now  the  scene 

Is  empty ;  Roldan,  weary,  gathers  pence, 

Followed  by  Annibal  with  purse  and  stick. 

The  carpet  lies  a  coloured  isle  untrod, 

Inviting  feet :  "  The  dance,  the  dance,"  resounds, 

The  bow  entreats  with  slow  melodic  strain, 

And  all  the  air  with  expectation  yearns. 

Sudden,  with  gliding  motion  like  a  flame 

That  through  dim  vapour  makes  a  path  of  glory, 

A  figure  lithe,  all  white  and  saffron-robed, 

Flashed  right  across  the  circle,  and  now  stood 

With  ripened  arms  uplift  and  regal  head, 

Like  some  tall  flower  whose  dark  and  intense  heart 

Lies  half  within  a  tulip-tinted  cup. 

Juan  stood  fixed  and  pale ;  Pepita  stepped 
Backward  within  the  ring :  the  voices  fell 
From  shouts  insistent  to  more  passive  tones 
Half  meaning  welcome,  half  astonishment. 
"  Lady  Fedalma !  —  will  she  dance  for  us  ?  " 

But  she,  sole  swayed  by  impulse  passionate, 
Feeling  all  life  was  music  and  all  eyes 


'*A  figure  lithe,  all  white  and  saffron  robed, 
Flashed  right  across  the  circle." 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  71 

The  warming,  quickening  light  that  music  makes, 

Moved  as,  in  dance  religious,  Miriam, 

When  on  the  Red  Sea  shore  she  raised  her  voice, 

And  led  the  chorus  of  her  people's  joy ; 

Or  as  the  Trojan  maids  that  reverent  sang 

Watching  the  sorrow-crowne'd  Hecuba  : 

Moved  in  slow  curves  voluminous,  gradual, 

Feeling  and  action  flowing  into  one, 

In  Edon's  natural  taintless  marriage -bond; 

Ardently  modest,  sensuously  pure, 

With  young  delight  that  wonders  at  itself 

And  throbs  as  innocent  as  opening  flowers, 

Knowing  not  comment,  —  soilless,  beautiful. 

The  spirit  in  her  gravely  glowing  face 

With  sweet  community  informs  her  limbs, 

Filling  their  fine  gradation  with  the  breath 

Of  virgin  majesty ;  as  full  vowelled  words 

Are  new  impregnate  with  the  master's  thought. 

Even  the  chance-strayed  delicate  tendrils  black, 

That    backward    'scape   from    out   her   wreathing 

hair,  — 

Even  the  pliant  folds  that  cling  transverse 
When  with  obliquely  soaring  bend  altern 
She  seems  a  goddess  quitting  earth  again  — 
Gather  expression  —  a  soft  undertone 
And  resonance  exquisite  from  the  grand  chord 
Of  her  harmoniously  bodied  soul. 

At  first  a  reverential  silence  guards 

The  eager  senses  of  the  gazing  crowd : 

They  hold  their  breath,  and  live  by  seeing  her. 

But  soon  the  admiring  tension  finds  relief, — 

Sighs  of  delight,  applausive  murmurs  low, 

And  stirrings  gentle  as  of  eare'd  corn 

Or  seed-bent  grasses,  when  the  ocean's  breath 


}*  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Spreads  landward.     Even  Juan  is  impelled 
By  the  swift-travelling  movement :  fear  and  doubt 
Give  way  before  the  hurrying  energy ; 
He  takes  his  lute  and  strikes  in  fellowship. 
Filling  more  full  the  rill  of  melody 
Eaised  ever  and  anon  to  clearest  flood 
By  Pablo's  voice,  that  dies  away  too  soon, 
Like  the  sweet  blackbird's  fragmentary  chant, 
Yet  wakes  again,  with  varying  rise  and  fall, 
In  songs  that  seem  emergent  memories 
Prompting  brief  utterance,  —  little  cancidns 
And  villancicos,  Andalusia-born. 

PABLO  (sings). 

It  was  in  the  prime 

Of  the  sweet  Spring-time. 

In  the  linnet's  throat 

Trembled  the  love-note, 
And  the  love-stirred  air 
Thrilled  the  blossoms  there. 

Little  shadows  danced 
Each  a  tiny  elf, 

Happy  in  large  light 
And  the  thinnest  self. 

It  was  but  a  minute 

In  a  far-off  Spring, 

But  each  gentle  thing, 
Sweetly -wooing  linnet, 

Soft-thrilled  hawthorn-tree, 
Happy  shadowy  elf 
With  the  thinnest  self, 

Live  still  on  in  me. 
Oh,  the  sweet,  sweet  prime 
Of  the  past  Spring-time  ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  73 

And  still  the  light  is  changing :  high  above 
Float  soft  pink  clouds ;  others  with  deeper  flush 
Stretch  like  flamingoes  bending  toward  the  south. 
Comes  a  more  solemn  brilliance  o'er  the  sky, 
A  meaning  more  intense  upon  the  air,  — 
The  inspiration  of  the  dying  day. 
And  Juan  now,  when  Pablo's  notes  subside, 
Soothes  the  regretful  ear,  and  breaks  the  pause 
With  masculine  voice  in  deep  antiphony. 

JUAN  (sings). 

Day  is  dying  !    Float,  0  song, 

Down  the  westward  river, 
Requiem  chanting  to  the  Day,  — 

Day,  the  mighty  Giver. 

Pierced  "by  shafts  of  Time  he  bleeds 

Melted  rubies  sending 
TJirough  the  river  and  the  sky, 

Earth  and  heaven  blending  ; 

All  the  long-drawn  earthly  banks 

Up  to  cloud-land  lifting: 
Slow  between  them  drifts  the  swan, 

'Twixt  two  heavens  drifting. 

Wings  half  open,  like  a  Jlow'r 

Inly  deeper  flushing, 
Neck  and  breast  as  virgin's  pure,  — 
Virgin  proudly  blushing. 

Day  is  dying  !     Float,  0  swan, 

Down  the  ruby  river; 
Follow,  song,  in  requiem 

To  the  mighty  Giver. 


74  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  exquisite  hour,  the  ardour  of  the  crowd, 

The   strains   more   plenteous,    and   the   gathering 

might 

Of  action  passionate  where  no  effort  is, 
But  self's  poor  gates  open  to  rushing  power 
That  blends  the  inward  ebb  and"  outward  vast,  — 
All  gathering  influences  culminate 
And  urge  Fedalma.     Earth  and  heaven  seem  one, 
Life  a  glad  trembling  on  the  outer  edge 
Of  unknown  rapture.      Swifter  now  she  moves, 
Filling  the  measure  with  a  double  beat 
And  widening  circle ;  now  she  seems  to  glow 
With  more  declared  presence,  glorified. 
Circling,  she  lightly  bends  and  lifts  on  high 
The  multitudinous-sounding  tambourine, 
And  makes  it  ring  and  boom,  then  lifts  it  higher 
Stretching  her  left  arm  beauteous ;  now  the  crowd 
Exultant  shouts,  forgetting  poverty 
In  the  rich  moment  of  possessing  her. 

But  sudden,  at  one  point,  the  exultant  throng 
Is  pushed  and  hustled,  and  then  thrust  apart : 
Something  approaches,  — something  cuts  the  ring 
Of  jubilant  idlers,  —  startling  as  a  streak 
From  alien  wounds  across  the  blooming  flesh 
Of  careless  sporting  childhood.      'T  is  the  band 
Of  Gypsy  prisoners.     Soldiers  lead  the  van 
And  make  sparse  flanking  guard,  aloof  surveyed 
By  gallant  Lopez,  stringent  in  command. 
The  Gypsies  chained  in  couples,  all  save  one, 
Walk  in  dark  file  with  grand  bare  legs  and  arms 
And  savage  melancholy  in  their  eyes 
That  star-like  gleam  from  out  black  clouds  of  hair; 
Now  they  are  full  in  sight,  and  now  they  stretch 
Eight  to  the  centre  of  the  open  space. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  75 

Fedalma  now,  with  gentle  wheeling  sweep 
Returning,  like  the  loveliest  of  the  Hours 
Strayed  from  her  sisters,  truant  lingering, 
Faces  again  the  centre,  swings  again 
The  uplifted  tambourine  .   .  . 

When  lo !  with  sound 
Stupendous  throbbing,  solemn  as  a  voice 
Sent  by  the  invisible  choir  of  all  the  dead, 
Tolls  the  great  passing  bell  that  calls  to  prayer 
For  souls  departed :  at  the  mighty  beat 
It  seems  the  light  sinks  awe-struck,  —  't  is  the  note 
Of  the  sun's  burial;  speech  and  action  pause; 
Religious  silence  and  the  holy  sign 
Of  everlasting  memories  (the  sign 
Of  death  that  turned  to  more  diffusive  life) 
Pass  o'er  the  Plaqa.     Little  children  gaze 
With  lips  apart,  and  feel  the  unknown  god ; 
And  the  most  men  and  women  pray.     Not  all. 
The  soldiers  pray  ;  the  Gypsies  stand  unmoved 
As  pagan  statues  with  proud  level  gaze. 
But  he  who  wears  a  solitary  chain 
Heading  the  file,  has  turned  to  face  Fedalma. 
She  motionless,  with  arm  uplifted,  guards 
The  tambourine  aloft  (lest,  sudden-lowered, 
Its  trivial  jingle  mar  the  duteous  pause), 
Reveres  the  general  prayer,  but  prays  not,  stands 
With  level  glance  meeting  that  Gypsy's  eyes, 
That  seem  to  her  the  sadness  of  the  world 
Rebuking  her,  the  great  bell's  hidden  thought 
Now  first  unveiled,  — the  sorrows  unredeemed 
Of  races  outcast,  scorned,  and  wandering. 
Why  does  he  look  at  her  ?  why  she  at  him  ? 
As  if  the  meeting  light  between  their  eyes 
Made  permanent  union  ?     His  deep-knit  brow, 
Inflated  nostril,  scornful  lip  compressed, 


76  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Seem  a  dark  hieroglyph  of  coming  fate 
Written  before  her.      Father  Isidor 
Had  terrible  eyes,  and  was  her  enemy ; 
She  knew  it  and  defied  him ;  all  her  soul 
Rounded  and  hardened  in  its  separateness 
When  they  encountered.     But  this  prisoner,  — 
This  Gypsy,  passing,  gazing  casually,  — 
Was  he  her  enemy  too  ?     She  stood  all  quelled, 
The  impetuous  joy  that  hurried  in  her  veins 
Seemed  backward  rushing  turned  to  chillest  awe, 
Uneasy  wonder,  and  a  vague  self-doubt. 
The   minute   brief   stretched   measureless,  dream- 
filled 
By  a  dilated  new-fraught  consciousness. 

Now  it  was  gone ;  the  pious  murmur  ceased, 
The  Gypsies  all  moved  onward  at  command 
And  careless  noises  blent  confusedly. 
But  the  ring  closed  again,  and  many  ears 
Waited  for  Pablo's  music,  many  eyes 
Turned  towards  the  carpet :  it  lay  bare  and  dim, 
Twilight  was  there,  —  the  bright  Fedalma  gone. 

A  handsome  room  in  the  Castle.     On  a  table  a  rich 
jewel-casket. 

Silva  had  dropped  his  mail  and  with  it  all 

The  heavier  harness  of  his  warlike  cares. 

He  had  not  seen  Fedalma;  miser-like 

He  hoarded  through  the  hour  a  costlier  joy 

By  longing  oft-repressed.     Now  it  was  earned ; 

And  with  observance  wonted  he  would  send 

To  ask  admission.      Spanish  gentlemen 

Who  wooed  fair  dames  of  noble  ancestry 

Did  homage  with  rich  tunics  and  slashed  sleeves 

And  outward-surging  linen's  costly  snow; 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  77 

With  broidered  scarf  transverse,  and  rosary 

Handsomely  wrought  to  fit  high -blooded  prayer ; 

So  hinting  in  how  deep  respect  they  held 

That  self  they  threw  before  their  lady's  feet. 

And  Silva —  that  Fedalma's  rate  should  stand 

No  jot  below  the  highest,  that  her  love 

Might  seem  to  all  the  royal  gift  it  was  — 

Turned  every  trifle  in  his  mien  and  garb 

To  scrupulous  language,  uttering  to  the  world 

That  since  she  loved  him  he  went  carefully, 

Bearing  a  thing  so  precious  in  his  hand. 

A  man  of  high-wrought  strain,  fastidious 

In  his  acceptance,  dreading  all  delight 

That  speedy  dies  and  turns  to  carrion : 

His  senses  much  exacting,  deep  instilled 

With  keen  .imagination's  difficult  needs;  — 

Like   strong-limbed   monsters   studded   o'er   with 

eyes, 

Their  hunger  checked  by  overwhelming  vision, 
Or  that  fierce  lion  in  symbolic  dream 
Snatched   from    the   ground   by  wings   and   new- 
endowed 

With  a  man's  thought-propelled  relenting  heart. 
Silva  was  both  the  lion  and  the  man ; 
First  hesitating  shrank,  then  fiercely  sprang, 
Or  having  sprung,  turned  pallid  at  his  deed 
And  loosed  the  prize,  paying  his  blood  for  naught. 
A  nature  half-transformed,  with  qualities 
That  oft  bewrayed  each  other,  elements 
Not  blent  but  struggling,  breeding  strange  effects, 
Passing  the  reckoning  of  his  friends  or  foes. 
Haughty  and  generous,  grave  and  passionate ; 
With  tidal  moments  of  devoutest  awe. 
Sinking  anon  to  furthest  ebb  of  doubt ; 
Deliberating  ever,  till  the  sting 


;S  POEMS  OF    GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Of  a  recurrent  ardour  made  him  rush 

Right  against  reasons  that  himself  had  drilled 

And  marshalled  painfully.     A  spirit  framed 

Too  proudly  special  for  obedience, 

Too  subtly  pondering  for  mastery  : 

Born  of  a  goddess  with  a  mortal  sire, 

Heir  of  flesh-fettered,  weak  divinity, 

Doom-gifted  with  long  resonant  consciousness 

And  perilous  heightening  of  the  sentient  soul. 

But  look  less  curiously  :  life  itself 

May  not  express  us  all,  may  leave  the  worst 

And  the  best  too,  like  tunes  in  mechanism 

Never  awaked.     In  various  catalogues 

Objects  stand  variously.     Silva  stands 

As  a  young  Spaniard,  handsome,  noble,  brave, 

With  titles  many,  high  in  pedigree ; 

Or,  as  a  nature  quiveringly  poised 

In  reach  of  storms,  whose  qualities  may  turn 

To  murdered  virtues  that  still  walk  as  ghosts 

Within  the  shuddering  soul  and  shriek  remorse ; 

Or,vas  a  lover  ...     In  the  screening  time 

Of  purple  blossoms  when  the  petals  crowd 

And  softly  crush  like  cherub  cheeks  in  heaven, 

Who  thinks  of  greenly  withered  fruit  and  worms  ? 

Oh  the  warm  southern  spring  is  beauteous ! 

And  in  love's  spring  all  good  seems  possible: 

No  threats,  all  promise,  brooklets  ripple  full 

And  bathe  the  rushes,  vicious  crawling  things 

Are  pretty  eggs,  the  sun  shines  graciously 

And  parches  not,  the  silent  rain  beats  warm 

As  childhood's  kisses,  days  are  young  and  grow, 

And  earth  seems  in  its  sweet  beginning  time 

Fresh  mada  for  two  who  live  in  Paradise. 

Silva  is  in  love's  spring,  its  freshness  breathed 

Within  his  soul  along  the  dusty  ways 


THE   SPANISH   GYPSY.  79 

While  marching  homeward ;  't  is  around  him  now 

As  in  a  garden  fenced  in  for  delight,— 

And  he  may  seek  delight.      Smiling  he  lifts 

A  whistle  from  his  belt,  but  lets  it  fall 

Ere  it  has  reached  his  lips,  jarred  by  the  sound 

Of  ushers'  knocking,  and  a  voice  that  craves 

Admission  for  the  Prior  of  San  Domingo. 

PRIOR  (entering}. 

You  look  perturbed,  my  son.     I  thrust  myself 
Between  you  and  some  beckoning  intent 
That  wears  a  face  more  smiling  than  my  own. 

DON  SILVA. 

Father,  enough  that  you  are  here.     I  wait, 

As  always,  your  commands,  —  nay,  should   have 

sought 
An  early  audience. 

PRIOR. 

To  give,  I  trust, 
Good  reasons  for  your  change  of  policy  ? 

DON  SILVA. 
Strong  reasons,  father. 

PRIOR.   • 

Ay,  but  are  they  good  ? 
I  have  known  reasons  strong,  but  strongly  evil. 

DON  SILVA. 

'T  is  possible.     I  but  deliver  mine 

To  your  strict  judgment.     Late  despatches  sent 

With  urgence  by  the  Count  of  Bavien, 

No  hint  on  my  part  prompting,  with  besides 


8o  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  testified  concurrence  of  the  king 

And  our  Grand  Master,  have  made  peremptory 

The  course  which  else  had  been  but  rational. 

Without  the  forces  furnished  by  allies 

The  siege  of  Guadix  would  be  madness.     More, 

El  Zagal  has  his  eyes  upon  Bedmdr : 

Let  him  attempt  it :  in  three  weeks  from  hence 

The  Master  and  the  Lord  of  Aguilar 

Will  bring  their  forces.    We  shall  catch  the  Moors, 

The  last  gleaned  clusters  of  their  bravest  men, 

As  in  a  trap.     You  have  my  reasons,  father. 

PKIOR. 

And  they  sound  well.    But  free-tongued  rumour  adds 

A  pregnant  supplement,  —  in  substance  this  : 

That  inclination  snatches  arguments 

To  make  indulgence  seem  judicious  choice; 

That  you,  commanding  in  God's  Holy  War, 

Lift  prayers  to  Satan  to  retard  the  fight 

And  give  you  time  for  feasting,  —  wait  a  siege, 

Call  daring  enterprise  impossible, 

Because  you  'd  marry !     You,  a  Spanish  duke, 

Christ's  general,  would  marry  like  a  clown, 

Who,  selling  fodder  dearer  for  the  war, 

Is  all  the  merrier ;  nay,  like  the  brutes, 

Who  know  no  awe  to  check  their  appetite, 

Coupling  'mid  heaps  of  slain,  while  still  in  front 

The  battle  rages. 

Dox  SILVA. 

Eumour  on  your  lips 
Is  eloquent,  father. 

PKIOR. 

Is  she  true  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  81 

DON  SILVA. 

Perhaps. 

I  seek  to  justify  my  public  acts 
And  not  my  private  joy.      Before  the  world 
Enough  if  I  am  faithful  in  command, 
Betray  not  by  my  deeds,  swerve  from  no  task 
My  knightly  vows  constrain  me  to :  herein 
I  ask  all  men  to  test  me. 

PKIOR. 

Knightly  vows  ? 
Is  it  by  their  constraint  that  you  must  marry  1 

DON  SILVA. 

Marriage  is  not  a  breach  of  them.     I  use 
A  sanctioned  liberty  .   .   .   your  pardon,  father, 
I  need  not  teach  you  what  the  Church  decrees. 
But  facts  may  weaken  texts,  and  so  dry  up 
The  fount  of  eloquence.     The  Church  relaxed 
Our  Order's  rule  before  I  took  the  vows. 

PRIOR. 

Ignoble  liberty !  you  snatch  your  rule 

From  what  God  tolerates,  not  what  he  loves  ?  — 

Inquire  what  lowest  offering  may  suffice, 

Cheapen  it  meanly  to  an  obolus, 

Buy,  and  then  count  the  coin  left  in  your  purse 

For  your  debauch  ?  —  Measure  obedience 

By  scantest  powers  of  feeble  brethren 

Whom  Holy  Church  indulges  ?  —  Ask  great  Law, 

The  rightful  Sovereign  of  the  human  soul, 

For  what  it  pardons,  not  what  it  commands  ? 

Oh  fallen  knighthood,  penitent  of  high  vows, 

Asking  a  charter  to  degrade  itself ! 


82  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Such  poor  apology  of  rules  relaxed 
Blunts  not  suspicion  of  that  doubleness 
Your  enemies  tax  you  with. 

DON  SILVA. 

Oh,  for  the  rest, 

Conscience  is  harder  than  our  enemies, 
Knows  more,  accuses  with  more  nicety, 
Nor  needs  to  question  Rumour  if  we  fall 
Below  the  perfect  model  of  our  thought. 
I  fear  no  outward  arbiter.  —  You  smile  ? 

PRIOR. 

Ay,  at  the  contrast  'twixt  your  portraiture 

And  the  true  image  of  your  conscience,  shown 

As  now  I  see  it  in  your  acts.     I  see 

A  drunken  sentinel  who  gives  alarm 

At  his  own  shadow,  but  when  sealers  snatch 

His  weapon  from  his  hand  smiles  idiot-like 

At  games  he  's  dreaming  of. 

DON  SILVA. 

A  parable! 

The   husk   is    rough,  —  holds    something    bitter, 
doubtless. 

PRIOR. 

Oh,  the  husk  gapes  with  meaning  over-ripe. 
You  boast  a  conscience  that  controls  your  deeds, 
Watches  your  knightly  armour,  guards  your  rank 
From  stain  of  treachery,  —  you,  helpless  slave, 
Whose  will  lies  nerveless  in  the  clutch  of  lust,  — 
Of  blind  mad  passion, — passion  itself  most  helpless, 
Storm-driven,  like  the  monsters  of  the  sea. 
Oh  famous  conscience ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  83 

DON  SILVA. 

Pause  there !     Leave  unsaid 
Aught  that  will  match  that  text.     More  were  too 

much, 

Even  from  holy  lips.     I  own  no  love 
But  such  as  guards  my  honour,  since  it  guards 
Hers  whom  I  love !     I  suffer  no  foul  words 
To  stain  the  gift  I  lay  before  her  feet ; 
And,  being  hers,  my  honour  is  more  safe. 

PRIOR. 

Verse-makers'  talk !  fit  for  a  world  of  rhymes, 

Where  facts  are  feigned  to  tickle  idle  ears, 

Where  good  and  evil  play  at  tournament 

And  end  in  amity,  —  a  world  of  lies,  — 

A  carnival  of  words  where  every  year 

Stale   falsehoods   serve  fresh  men.     Your   honour 

safe? 

What  honour  has  a  man  with  double  bonds  ? 
Honour  is  shifting  as  the  shadows  are 
To  souls  that  turn  their  passions  into  laws. 
A  Christian  knight  who  weds  an  infidel  .   .  . 

DON  SILVA  (fiercely). 
An  infidel ! 

PRIOR. 

May  one  day  spurn  the  Cross, 
And  call  that  honour !  —  one  day  find  his  sword 
Stained   with  his  brother's  blood,    and   call   that 

honour ! 

Apostates'  honour?  —  harlots'  chastity! 
Renegades'  faithfulness  ?  —  Iscariot's ! 


84  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 

Strong  words  and  burning ;  but  they  scorch  not  me. 
Fedalma  is  a  daughter  of  the  Church,  — 
Has  been  baptized  and  nurtured  in  the  faith. 

PKIOR. 

Ay,  as  a  thousand  Jewesses,  who  yet 
Are  brides  of  Satan  in  a  robe  of  flames. 

DON  SILVA. 

Fedalma  is  no  Jewess,  bears  no  marks 
That  tell  of  Hebrew  blood. 

PRIOR. 

She  bears  the  marks 
Of  races  unbaptized,  that  never  bowed 
Before  the  holy  signs,  were  never  moved 
By  stirrings  of  the  sacramental  gifts. 

DON  SILVA  (scornfully). 

Holy  accusers  practise  palmistry, 

And,  other  witness  lacking,  read  the  skin. 

PRIOR. 

I  read  a  record  deeper  than  the  skin. 

What !     Shall  the  trick  of  nostrils  and  of  lips 

Descend  through  generations,  and  the  soul 

That  moves  within  our  frame  like  God  in  worlds  — 

Convulsing,  urging,  melting,  withering  — 

Imprint  no  record,  leave  no  documents, 

Of  her  great  history  ?     Shall  men  bequeath 

The  fancies  of  their  palate  to  their  sons, 

And  shall  the  shudder  of  restraining  awe, 

The  slow-wept  tears  of  contrite  memory, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  85 

Faith's  prayerful  labour,  and  the  food  divine 
Of  fasts  ecstatic, —  shall  these  pass  away 
Like  wind  upon  the  waters,  tracklessly  ? 
Shall  the  mere  curl  of  eyelashes  remain 
And  god-enshrining  symbols  leave  no  trace 
Of  tremors  reverent?  —  That  maiden's  blood 
Is  as  unchristian  as  the  leopard's. 

DON  SILVA. 

Say, 

Unchristian  as  the  Blessed  Virgin's  blood 
Before  the  angel  spoke  the  word,  "  All  hail !  * 

PKIOK  (smiling  'bitterly). 

Say  I  not  truly  ?     See,  your  passion  weaves 
Already  blasphemies ! 

DON  SILVA. 

'T  is  you  provoke  them. 

PEIOR. 

I  strive,  as  still  the  Holy  Spirit  strives, 

To  move  the  will  perverse.     But,  failing  this, 

God  commands  other  means  to  save  our  blood, 

To  save  Castilian  glory,  —  nay,  to  save 

The  name  of  Christ  from  blot  of  traitorous  deeds. 

DON  SILVA. 

Of  traitorous  deeds  !   Age,  kindred,  and  your  cowl 

Give  an  ignoble  license  to  your  tongue. 

As  for  your  threats,  fulfil  them  at  your  peril. 

'T  is  you,  not  I,  will  gibbet  our  great  name 

To  ret  in  infamy.     If  I  am  strong 

In  patience  now,  trust  me,  I  can  be  strong 

Then  in  defiance. 


86  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

PRIOR. 

Miserable  man! 

Your  strength  will  turn  to  anguish,  like  the  strength 
Of  fallen  angels.      Can  you  change  your  blood  ? 
You  are  a  Christian,  with  the  Christian  awe 
In  every  vein.     A  Spanish  noble,  born 
To  serve  your  people  and  your  people's  faith. 
Strong,  are  you  ?   Turn  your  back  upon  the  Cross,  — 
Its  shadow  is  before  you.     Leave  your  place : 
Quit  the  great  ranks  of  knighthood  :  you  will  walk 
Forever  with  a  tortured  double  self, 
A  self  that  will  be  hungry  while  you  feast, 
Will  blush  with  shame  while  you  are  glorified, 
Will  feel  the  ache  and  chill  of  desolation, 
Even  in  the  very  bosom  of  your  love. 
Mate  yourself  with  this  woman,  fit  for  what  ? 
To  make  the  sport  of  Moorish  palaces 
A  lewd  Herodias  .  .   . 

DON  SILVA. 

Stop !  no  other  man, 

Priest  though  he  were,  had  had  his  throat  left  free 
For  passage  of  those  words.    I  would  have  clutched 
His  serpent's  neck,  and  flung  him  out  to  hell! 
A  monk  must  needs  defile  the  name  of  love : 
He  knows  it  but  as  tempting  devils  paint  it. 
You  think  to  scare  my  love  from  its  resolve 
With  arbitrary  consequences,  strained 
By  rancorous  effort  from  the  thinnest  motes 
Of  possibility?  —  cite  hideous  lists 
Of  sins  irrelevant,  to  frighten  me 
With  bugbears'  names,  as  women  fright  a  child? 
Poor  pallid  wisdom,  taught  by  inference 
From  blood-drained  life,  where  phantom  terrors  rule. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  87 

And  all  achievement  is  to  leave  undone ! 
Paint  the  day  dark,  make  sunshine  cold  to  me, 
Abolish  the  earth's  fairness,  prove  it  all 
A  fiction  of  my  eyes, —  then,  after  that, 
Profane  Fedalma. 

PRIOR. 

Oh,  there  is  no  need : 

She  has  profaned  herself.     Go,  raving  man, 
And  see  her  dancing  now.     Go,  see  your  bride 
Flaunting  her  beauties  grossly  in  the  gaze 
Of  vulgar  idlers,  —  eking  out  the  show 
Made  in  the  Plaqa  by  a  mountebank. 
I  hinder  you  no  further. 

DON  SILVA. 

It  is  false ! 

PRIOR. 
Go,  prove  it  false,  then. 

[Father  Isidor 

Drew  on  his  cowl  and  turned  away.     The  face 
That  flashed  anathemas,  in  swift  eclipse 
Seemed  Silva's  vanished  confidence.     In  haste 
He  rushed  unsignalled  through  the  corridor 
To  where  the  Duchess  once,  Fedalma  now, 
Had  residence  retired  from  din  of  arms, — 
Knocked,  opened,  found  all  empty,  —  said 
With  muffled   voice,    "  Fedalma !  "  —  called   more 

loud, 

More  oft  on  Inez,  the  old  trusted  nurse,  — 
Then  searched  the  terrace-garden,  calling  still, 
But  heard  no  answering  sound,  and  saw  no  face 
Save  painted  faces  staring  all  unmoved 


88  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

By  agitated  tones.     He  hurried  back, 

Giving  half-conscious  orders  as  he  went 

To  page  and  usher,  that  they  straight  should  seek 

Lady  Fedalma ;  then  with  stinging  shame 

Wished  himself  silent ;  reached  again  the  room 

Where  still  the  Father's  menace  seemed  to  hang 

Thickening  the  air;   snatched  cloak  and  plume'd 

hat, 
And    grasped,    not   knowing  why,   his    poniard's 

hilt; 
Then  checked  himself  and  said  :  — ] 

If  he  spoke  truth  ! 

To  know  were  wound  enough,  —  to  see  the  truth 
Were  fire  upon  the  wound.     It  must  be  false ! 
His  hatred  saw  amiss,  or  snatched  mistake 
In  other  men's  report.     I  am  a  fool ! 
But  where  can  she  be  gone  ?  gone  secretly  ? 
And  in  my  absence  ?     Oh,  she  meant  no  wrong  1 
I  am  a  fool !  —  But  where  can  she  be  gone  ? 
With  only  Inez  ?     Oh,  she  meant  no  wrong ! 
I  swear  she  never  meant  it.     There  's  no  wrong 
But  she  would  make  it  momentary  right 
By  innocence  in  doing  it.   ... 

And  yet, 

What  is  our  certainty  ?     Why,  knowing  all 
That  is  not  secret.     Mighty  confidence  1 
One  pulse  of  Time  makes  the  base  hollow,  —  sends 
The  towering  certainty  we  built  so  high 
Toppling  in  fragments  meaningless.      What  is  — 
What  will  be  —  must  be  —  pooh !    they  wait  the 

key 

Of  that  which  is  not  yet ;  all  other  keys 
Are  made  of  our  conjectures,  take  their  sense 
From  humours  fooled  by  hope,  or  by  despair. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  89 

Know  what  is  good  ?     Oh  God,  we  know  not  yet 
If  bliss  itself  is  not  young  misery 
With  fangs  swift  growing.   .   .   . 

But  some  outward  harm 
May  even  now  be  hurting,  grieving  her. 
Oh,  I  must  search,  —  face  shame,  —  if  shame  be  there. 
Here,  Perez!  hasten  to  Don  Alvar, —  tell  him 
Lady  Fedalma  must  be  sought,  —  is  lost, — 
Has  met,  I  fear,  some  mischance.     He  must  send 
Towards  divers  points.     I  go  myself  to  seek 
First  in  the  town.   .   .  . 

[As  Perez  oped  the  door, 
Then  moved  aside  for  passage  of  the  Duke, 
Fedalma  entered,  cast  away  the  cloud 
Of  serge  and  linen,  and,  outbeaming  bright, 
Advanced  a  pace  towards  Silva, —  but  then  paused, 
For  he  had  started  and  retreated  ;  she, 
Quick  and  responsive  as  the  subtle  air 
To  change  in  him,  divined  that  she  must  wait 
Until  they  were  alone :  they  stood  and  looked. 
Within  the  Duke  was  struggling  confluence 
Of  feelings  manifold, —  pride,  anger,  dread, 
Meeting  in  stormy  rush  with  sense  secure 
That  she  was  present,  with  the  satisfied  thirst 
Of  gazing  love,  with  trust  inevitable 
As  in  beneficent  virtues  of  the  light 
And  all  earth's  sweetness,  that  Fedalma 's  soul 
Was   free   from   blemishing  purpose.     Yet   proud 

wrath 

Leaped  in  dark  flood  above  the  purer  stream 
That  strove  to  drown  it :  Anger  seeks  its  prey,  — 
Something    to    tear  with  sharp-edged    tooth    and 

claw, 
Likes  not  to  go  off  hungry,  leaving  Love 


90  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

To  feast  on  milk  and  honeycomb  at  will. 

Silva's  heart  said,  he  must  be  happy  soon, 

She  being  there  ;  but  to  be  happy,  —  first 

He  must  be  angry,  having  cause.     Yet  love 

Shot  like  a  stifled  cry  of  tenderness 

All  through  the   harshness   he   would  fain  have 

given 
To  the  dear  word,] 

DON  SILVA. 
Fedalma ! 

FEDALMA. 

O  my  Lord ! 
You  are  come  back,  and  I  was  wandering ! 

DON  SILVA  (coldly,  but  with  suppressed  agitation). 
You  meant  I  should  be  ignorant. 

FED  ALMA. 

Oh  no, 

I  should  have  told  you  after,  — not  before, 
Lest  you  should  hinder  me. 

DON  SILVA. 

Then  my  known  wish 
Can  make  no  hindrance  ? 

FEDALMA  (archly). 

That  depends 

On  what  the  wish  may  be.     You  wished  me  once 
Not  to  uncage  the  birds.     I  meant  to  obey : 
But  in  a  moment  something  —  something  stronger. 
Forced  me  to  let  them  out.     It  did  no  harm. 
They  all  came  back  again,  —  the  silly  birds ! 
I  told  you,  after. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  91 

DON  SlLVA  (with  haughty  coldness). 

Will  you  tell  me  now 

What  was  the  prompting  stronger  than  my  wish 
That  made  you  wander  ? 

FEDALMA  (advancing  a  step  towards  him,  with  a 
sudden  look  of  anxiety). 

Are  you  angry  ? 

DON  SILVA  (smiling  Utterly}. 

Angry  ? 

A  man  deep-wounded  may  feel  too  much  pain 
To  feel  much  anger. 

FEDALMA  (still  more  anxiously). 

You  —  deep-wounded  ? 

DON  SILT  A. 

Yes! 

Have  I  not  made  your  place  and  dignity 
The  very  heart  of  my  ambition  ?     You, — 
No  enemy  could  do  it,  —  you  alone 
Can  strike  it  mortally. 

FEDALMA. 

Nay,  Silva,  nay. 

Has  some  one  told  you  false  ?     I  only  went 
To  see  the  world  with  Inez,  —  see  the  town, 
The  people,  everything.     It  was  no  harm. 
I  did  not  mean  to  dance :  it  happened  so 
At  last  .   .  . 

DON  SILVA. 

0  God,  it 's  true,  then !  —  true  that  you, 
A  maiden  nurtured  as  rare  flowers  are, 


92  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  very  air  of  heaven  sifted  fine 
Lest  any  mote  should  mar  your  purity, 
Have  flung  yourself  out  on  the  dusty  way 
For  common  eyes  to  see  your  beauty  soiled ! 
You  own  it  true,  —  you  danced  upon  the  Plaga  ? 

FEDALMA  (proudly). 

Yes,  it  is  true.     I  was  not  wrong  to  dance. 
The  air  was  filled  with  music,  with  a  song 
That  seemed  the  voice  of  the  sweet  eventide,  — 
The  glowing  light  entering  through  eye  and  ear,  — 
That  seemed  our  love,  —  mine,  yours,  —  they  are 

but  one,  — 

Trembling  through  all  my  limbs,  as  fervent  words 
Tremble  within  my  soul  and  must  be  spoken. 
And  all  the  people  felt  a  common  joy 
And  shouted  for  the  dance.     A  brightness  soft 
As  of  the  angels  moving  down  to  see 
Illumined  the  broad  space.     The  joy,  the  life 
Around,  within  me,  were  one  heaven :  I  longed 
To  blend  them  visibly :  I  longed  to  dance 
Before  the  people,  —  be  as  mounting  flame 
To  all  that  burned  within  them  !     Nay,  I  danced ; 
There  was  no  longing :  I  but  did  the  deed 
Being  moved  to  do  it. 

(As  FEDALMA  speaks,  she  and  DON  SILVA  are  grad- 
ually drawn  nearer  to  each  other.) 

Oh,  I  seemed  new-waked 
To  life  in  unison  with  a  multitude,  — 
Feeling  my  soul  upborne  by  all  their  souls, 
Floating  within  their  gladness !     Soon  I  lost 
All  sense  of  separateness :  Fedalma  died 
As  a  star  dies,  and  melts  into  the  light. 
I  was  not,  but  joy  was,  and  love  and  triumph. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  93 

Nay,  my  dear  lord,  I  never  could  do  aught 
But  I  must  feel  you  present.     And  once  done, 
Why,  you  must  love  it  better  than  your  wish. 
I  pray  you,  say  so,  —  say,  it  was  not  wrong ! 

(  Wliile  FEDALMA  lias  been  making  this  last 
appeal,  they  have  gradually  come  close 
together,  and  at  last  embrace.) 

DON  SILVA  (holding  her  hands). 

Dangerous  rebel !  if  the  world  without 
Were  pure  as  that  within  .   .   .   but  't  is  a  book 
Wherein  you  only  read  the  poesy 
And  miss  all  wicked  meanings.     Hence  the  need 
For  trust  —  obedience  —  call  it  what  you  will  — 
Towards  him  whose  life  will  be  your  guard,  — to- 
wards me 
Who  now  am  soon  to  be  your  husband. 

FEDALMA. 

Yes! 

That  very  thing  that  when  I  am  your  wife 
I  shall  be  something  different, —  shall  be 
I  know  not  what,  a  duchess  with  new  thoughts, — 
For  nobles  never  think  like  common  men, 
Nor  wives  like  maidens  (oh,  you  wot  not  yet 
How  much  I  note,  with  all  my  ignorance), — 
That  very  thing  has  made  me  more  resolve 
To  have  my  will  before  I  am  your  wife. 
How  can  the  Duchess  ever  satisfy 
Fedalma's  unwed  eyes  ?  and  so  to-day 
I  scolded  Inez  till  she  cried  and  went. 

DON  SILVA. 

It  was  a  guilty  weakness :  she  knows  well 
That  since  you  pleaded  to  be  left  more  free 


94  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

From  tedious  tendance  and  control  of  dames 
Whose  rank  matched  better  with  your  destiny, 
Her  charge  —  my  trust  —  was  weightier. 

FEDALMA. 

Nay,  rny  lord, 

You  must  not  blame  her,  dear  old  nurse.    She  cried. 
Why,  you  would  have  consented  too,  at  last. 
I  said  such  things !     I  was  resolved  to  go, 
And  see  the  streets,  the  shops,  the  men  at  work. 
The  women,  little  children, —  everything, 
Just  as  it  is  when  nobody  looks  on. 
And  I  have  done  it !     We  were  out  four  hours. 
I  feel  so  wise. 

DON  SILVA. 

Had  you  but  seen  the  town, 

You  innocent  naughtiness,  not  shown  yourself,-— 
Shown  yourself  dancing,  — you  bewilder  me!  — 
Frustrate  my  judgment  with  strange  negatives 
That  seem  like  poverty,  and  yet  are  wealth 
In  precious  womanliness,  beyond  the  dower 
Of  other  women :  wealth  in  virgin  gold, 
Outweighing  all  their  petty  currency. 
You  daring  modesty !     You  shrink  no  more 
From  gazing  men  than  from  the  gazing  flowers 
That,  dreaming  sunshine,  open  as  you  pass. 

FEDALMA. 

No,  I  should  like  the  world  to  look  at  me 

With  eyes  of  love  that  make  a  second  day. 

I  think  your  eyes  would  keep  the  life  in  me 

Though  I  had  naught  to  feed  on  else.     Their  blue 

Is  better  than  the  heavens',  — hold  more  love 

For  me,  Fedalma, —  is  a  little  heaven 

For  this  one  little  world  that  looks  up  now. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  95 

DON  SILVA. 

0  precious  little  world !  you  make  the  heaven 
As  the  earth  makes  the  sky.    But,  dear,  all  eyes, 
Though  looking  even  on  you,  have  not  a  glance 
That  cherishes  .   .   . 

FED  ALMA. 

Ah  no,  I  meant  to  tell  you,  — 
Tell  how  my  dancing  ended  with  a  pang. 
There  came  a  man,  one  among  many  more, 
But  he  came  first,  with  iron  on  his  limbs. 
And  when  the  bell  tolled,  and  the  people  prayed, 
And  I  stood  pausing,  —  then  he  looked  at  me. 
O  Silva,  such  a  man !     I  thought  he  rose 
From  the  dark  place  of  long-imprisoned  souls, 
To  say  that  Christ  had  never  come  to  them. 
It  was  a  look  to  shame  a  seraph's  joy 
And  make  him  sad  in  heaven.    It  found  me  there, — 
Seemed  to  have  travelled  far  to  find  me  there 
And  grasp  me,  —  claim  this  festal  life  of  mine 
As  heritage  of  sorrow,  chill  my  blood 
With  the  cold  iron  of  some  unknown  bonds. 
The  gladness  hurrying  full  within  my  veins 
Was  sudden  frozen,  and  I  danced  no  more. 
But  seeing  you  let  loose  the  stream  of  joy, 
Mingling  the  present  with  the  sweetest  past. 
Yet,  Silva,  still  I  see  him.     Who  is  he  ? 
Who   are   those   prisoners  with   him  ?     Are   they 
Moors  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  they  are  Gypsies,  strong  and  cunning  knaves, 

A  double  gain  to  us  by  the  Moors'  loss : 

The  man  you  mean  —  their  chief — is  an  ally 


96  POEMS  OF   GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  infidel  will  miss.     His  look  might  chase 
A  herd  of  monks,  and  make  them  fly  more  swift 
Than  from  St.  Jerome's  lion.      Such  vague  fear, 
Such  bird-like  tremors  when  that  savage  glance 
Turned  full  upon  you  in  your  height  of  joy 
Was  natural,  was  not  worth  emphasis. 
Forget  it,  dear.     This  hour  is  worth  whole  days 
When  we  are  sundered.      Danger  urges  us 
To  quick  resolve. 

FEDALMA. 

What  danger  ?     What  resolve  ? 
I  never  felt  chill  shadow  in  my  heart 
Until  this  sunset. 

DON  SILVA. 

A  dark  enmity 

Plots  how  to  sever  us.     And  our  defence 
Is  speedy  marriage,  secretly  achieved, 
Then  publicly  declared.      Beseech  you,  dear, 
Grant  me  this  confidence ;  do  my  will  in  this, 
Trusting  the  reasons  why  I  overset 
All  my  own  airy  building  raised  so  high 
Of  bridal  honours,  marking  when  you  step 
From  off  your  maiden  throne  to  come  to  me 
And  bear  the  yoke  of  love.     There  is  great  need. 
I  hastened  home,  carrying  this  prayer  to  you 
Within  my  heart.     The  bishop  is  my  friend, 
Furthers  our  marriage,  holds  in  enmity  — 
Some  whom  we  love  not  and  who  love  not  us. 
By    this    night's    moon    our   priest  will    be   de- 
spatched 

From  Jae'n.     I  shall  march  an  escort  strong 
To  meet  him.      Ere  a  second  sun  from  this 
Has  risen  —  you  consenting  —  we  may  wed. 


THE  SPANISH  GYrSY.  97 

FEDALMA. 
None  knowing  that  we  wed? 

DON  SILVA. 

Beforehand  none 

Save  Inez  and  Don  Alvar.     But  the  vows 
Once  safely  binding  us,  my  household  all 
Shall  know  you  as  their  Duchess.     No  man  then 
Can  aim  a  blow  at  you  but  through  my  breast, 
And  what  stains  you  must  stain  our  ancient  name ; 
If  any  hate  you  I  will  take  his  hate 
And  wear  it  as  a  glove  upon  my  helm ; 
Nay,  God  himself  will  never  have  the  power 
To  strike  you  solely  and  leave  me  unhurt, 
He  having  made  us  one.     Now  put  the  seal 
Of  your  dear  lips  on  that. 

FEDALMA. 

A  solemn  kiss?  — 

Such  as  I  gave  you  when  you  came  that  day 
From  Cordova,  when  first  we  said  we  loved  ? 
When  you  had  left  the  ladies  of  the  court 
For  thirst  to  see  me ;  and  you  told  me  so ; 
And  then  I  seemed  to  know  why  I  had  lived. 
I  never  knew  before.     A  kiss  like  that  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes,  yes,  you  face  divine !     When  was  our  kiss 
Like  any  other  ? 

FEDALMA. 

Nay,  I  cannot  tell 

What  other  kisses  are.     But  that  one  kiss 
Remains  upon  my  lips.      The  angels,  spirits, 

VOL.    I.  —  7 


98  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Creatures  with  finer  sense,  may  see  it  there. 
And  now  another  kiss  that  will  not  die, 
Saying,  To-morrow  I  shall  be  your  wife ! 

(They  kiss,  and  pause  a  moment,  looking  ear- 
nestly  in  each  other's  eyes.  Then  FEDALMA, 
breaking  away  from  DON  SILVA,  stands  at 
a  little  distance  from  him  with  a  look,  of 
roguish  delight.) 

Now  I  am  glad  I  saw  the  town  to-day 

Before  I  am  a  Duchess,  — glad  I  gave 

This  poor  Fedalma  all  her  wish.     For  once, 

Long  years  ago,  I  cried  when  Inez  said, 

"  You  are  no  more  a  little  girl ;  "  I  grieved 

To  part  forever  from  that  little  girl 

And  all  her  happy  world  so  near  the  ground. 

It  must  be  sad  to  outlive  aught  we  love. 

So  I  shall  grieve  a  little  for  these  days 

Of  poor  unwed  Fedalma.     Oh,  they  are  sweet, 

And  none  will  come  just  like  them.     Perhaps  the 

wind 

Wails  so  in  winter  for  the  summers  dead, 
And  all  sad  sounds  are  nature's  funeral  cries 
For  what  has  been  and  is  not.     Are  they,  Silva  ? 
(She  comes  nearer  to  him  again,  and  lays  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  looking  up  at  him  with 
melancholy.) 

DON  SILVA. 

Why,  dearest,  you  began  in  merriment, 

And  end  as  sadly  as  a  widowed  bird. 

Some  touch  mysterious  has  new-tuned  your  soul 

To  melancholy  sequence.      You  soared  high 

In  that  wild  flight  of  rapture  when  you  danced, 

And  now  you  droop.      "T  is  arbitrary  grief, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  99 

Surfeit  of  happiness,  that  mourns  for  loss 
Of  unwed  love,  which  does  but  die  like  seed 
For  fuller  harvest  of  our  tenderness. 
We  in  our  wedded  life  shall  know  no  loss. 
We  shall  new-date  our  years.     What  went  before 
Will  be  the  time  of  promise,  shadows,  dreams ; 
But  this,  full  revelation  of  great  love. 
For  rivers  blent  take  in  a  broader  heaven, 
And  we  shall  blend  our  souls.     Away  with  grief! 
When  this  dear  head  shall  wear  the  double  crown 
Of  wife  and  Duchess, —  spiritually  crowned 
With  sworn  espousal  before  God  and  man, — 
Visibly  crowned  with  jewels  that  bespeak 
The  chosen  sharer  of  my  heritage, — 
My  love  will  gather  perfectness,  as  thoughts 
That  nourish  us  to  magnanimity 
Grow  perfect  with  more  perfect  utterance, 
Gathering  full-shapen  strength.     And  then  these 
gems, 

(DON  SILVA  draws  FEDALMA  towards  the  jewel- 
casket  on  the  table,  and  opens  it.) 

Helping  the  utterance  of  my  soul's  full  choice, 
Will  be  the  words  made  richer  by  just  use, 
And  have  new  meaning  in  their  lustrousness. 
You  know  these  jewels ;  they  are  precious  signs 
Of  long-transmitted  honour,  heightened  still 
By  worthy  wearing;  and  I  give  them  you, — 
Ask  you  to  take  them, —  place  our  house's  trust 
In  her  sure  keeping  whom  iny  heart  has  found 
Worthiest,  most  beauteous.     These  rubies  —  see  — • 
Were  falsely  placed  if  not  upon  your  brow. 

(FEDALMA,  while  DON  SILVA  holds  open  the 
casket,  lends  over  it,  looking  at  the  jewels 
with  delight.) 


ioo  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FEDALMA. 

Ah,  I  remember  them.     In  childish  days 
I  felt  as  if  they  were  alive  and  breathed. 
I  used  to  sit  with  awe  and  look  at  them. 
And  now  they  will  be  mine !     I  '11  put  them  on. 
Help  me,  my  lord,  and  you  shall  see  me  now 
Somewhat  as  I  shall  look  at  Court  with  you, 
That  we  may  know  if  I  shall  bear  them  well. 
I  have  a  fear  sometimes  :  I  think  your  love 
Has  never  paused  within  your  eyes  to  look, 
And  only  passes  through  them  into  mine. 
But  when  the  Court  is  looking,  and  the  queen, 
Your  eyes  will  follow  theirs.      Oh,  if  you  saw 
That  I  was  other  than  you  wished, —  't  were  death ! 

DON  SlLVA  (taking  up  a  jewel  and  placing  it 
against  her  ear). 

Nay,  let  us  try.     Take  out  your  ear-ring,  sweet. 
This  ruby  glows  with  longing  for  your  ear. 

FEDALMA  (taking  out  her  ear-rings,  and  then  lifting 
up  the  other  jewels,  one  by  one). 

Pray,  fasten  in  the  rubies. 

(DON  SILVA  begins  to  put  in  the  ear-ring.) 

I  was  right ! 

These  gems  have  life  in  them  :  their  colours  speak, 
Say  what  words  fail  of.      So  do  many  things, — 
The  scent  of  jasmine,  and  the  fountain's  plash, 
The  moving  shadows  on  the  far-off  hills, 
The  slanting  moonlight  and  our  clasping  hands. 
O  Silva,  there  's  an  ocean  round  our  words 
That  overflows  and  drowns  them.     Do  you  know 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  101 

Sometimes  when  we  sit  silent,  and  the  air 
Breathes  gently  on  us  from  the  orange-trees, 
It  seems  that  with  the  whisper  of  a  word 
Our  souls  must  shrink,  get  poorer,  more  apart. 
Ts  it  not  true  ? 

Dox  SILVA. 

Yes,  dearest,  it  is  true. 
Speech  is  but  broken  light  upon  the  depth 
Of  the  unspoken  :  even  your  loved  words 
Float  in  the  larger  meaning  of  your  voice 
As  something  dimmer. 

(He  is  still  trying  in  vain  to  fasten  the  second 
ear-ring,  while  she  has  stooped  again  over 
the  casket.) 

FEDALMA  (raising  her  head). 

Ah !  your  lordly  hands 
Will  never  fix  that  jewel.     Let  me  try. 
Women's  small  finger-tips  have  eyes. 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  no! 
I  like  the  task,  only  you  must  be  still. 

(She  stands  perfectly  still,  clasping  her  hands 
together  while  he  fastens  the  second  ear- 
ring. Suddenly  a  clanking  noise  is  heard 
without.} 

FEDALMA  (starting  with  an  expression  of  pain). 

What  is  that  sound  ?  —  that  jarring  cruel  sound  ? 
:T  is  there, —  outside. 

(She  tries  to  start  away  towards  the  window 
but  DON  SILVA  detains  her.) 


102  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 

Oh  heed  it  not,  it  comes 
From  workmen  in  the  outer  gallery. 

FEDALMA. 

It  is  the  sound  of  fetters :  sound  of  work 
Is  not  so  dismal.      Hark,  they  pass  along! 
I  know  it  is  those  Gypsy  prisoners. 
I  saw  them,  heard  their  chains.      Oh  horrible, 
To  be  in  chains  1     Why,  I  with  all  my  bliss 
Have  longed  sometimes  to  fly  and  be  at  large . 
Have  felt  imprisoned  in  my  luxury 
With  servants  for  my  jailers.     0  my  lord, 
Do  you  not  wish  the  world  were  different  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

It  will  be  different  when  this  war  has  ceased. 
You,  wedding  me,  will  make  it  different, 
Making  one  life  more  perfect. 

FED  ALMA. 

That  is  true ! 

And  I  shall  beg  much  kindness  at  your  hands 
For  those  who  are  less  happy  than  ourselves. — 
(Brightening. )  Oh,  I  shall  rule  you !  ask  for  many 

things 

Before  the  world,  which  you  will  not  deny 
For  very  pride,  lest  men  should  say,  "  The  Duke 
Holds  lightly  by  his  Duchess;  he  repents 
His  humble  choice. " 

(She  breaks  away  from  him  and  returns  to  the 
jewels,  taking  up  a  necklace,  and  clasping  it 
on  her  neck,  while  he  takes  a  circlet  of  dia- 
monds and  rubies  and  raises  it  towards  her 
head  as  he  speaks.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  103 

DON  SILVA. 

Doubtless,  I  shall  persist 
In  loving  you,  to  disappoint  the  world; 
Out  of  pure  obstinacy  feel  myself 
Happiest  of  men.     Now,  take  the  coronet. 

(He  places  the  circlet  on  her  head.) 
The  diamonds  want   more  light.     See,  from  this 

lamp 
I  can  set  tapers  burning. 

FED  ALMA. 

Tell  me,  now, 

When  all  these  cruel  wars  are  at  an  end, 
And  when  we  go  to  Court  at  Cordova, 
Or  Seville,  or  Toledo,  —  wait  awhile, 
I  must  be  farther  off  for  you  to  see, — 

(She  retreats  to  a  distance  from  him,  and  then 

advances  slowly.) 

Now  think  (I  would  the  tapers  gave  more  light !) 
If  when  you  show  me  at  the  tournaments 
Among  the  other  ladies,  they  will  say, 
"  Duke   Silva   is   well   matched.     His   bride  was 

naught, 

'Was  some  poor  foster-child,  no  man  knows  what; 
Yet  is  her  carriage  noble,  all  her  robes 
Are  worn  with  grace :    she  might  have  been  well 

born. " 

Will  they  say  so  ?     Think  now  we  are  at  Court, 
And  all  eyes  bent  on  me. 

DON  SILVA. 

Fear  not,  my  Duchess ! 

Some  knight  who  loves  may  say  his  lady-love 
Is  fairer,  being  fairest.     None  can  say 


104  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Don  Silva's  bride  might  better  fit  her  rank. 
You  will  make  rank  seem  natural  as  kind, 
As  eagle's  plumage  or  the  lion's  might. 
A  crown  upon  your  brow  would  seem  God-made. 

FED  ALMA. 

Then  I  am  glad !     I  shall  try  on  to-night 
The  other  jewels, —  have  the  tapers  lit, 
And  see  the  diamonds  sparkle. 

(She  goes  to  the  casket  again.) 

Here  is  gold,  — 
A  necklace  of  pure  gold,  —  most  finely  wrought. 

(She  takes  out  a  large  gold  necklace  and  holds 
it  up  before  her,  then  turns  to  DON  SILVA.) 
But  this  is  one  that  you  have  worn,  my  lord  ? 

DON  SILVA. 
No,  love,  I  never  wore  it.     Lay  it  down. 

(He  puts  the  necklace  gently  out  of  her  hand, 
then  joins  both  her  hands  and  holds  them 
up  between  his  own.) 
You  must  not  look  at  jewels  any  more, 
But  look  at  me. 

FED  ALMA  (looking  up  at  him). 

O  you  dear  heaven ! 

I  should  see  naught  if  you  were  gone.    'T  is  true 
My  mind  is  too  much  given  to  gauds,  — to  things 
That  fetter  thought  within  this  narrow  space. 
That  comes  of  fear. 

DON  SILVA. 
What  fear  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  105 

FEDALMA. 

Fear  of  myself. 

For  when  I  walk  upon  the  battlements 
And  see  the  river  travelling  toward  the  plain, 
The  mountains  screening  all  the  world  beyond, 
A  longing  comes  that  haunts  me  in  my  dreams, — 
Dreams  where  I  seem  to  spring  from  off  the  walls, 
And  fly  far,  far  away,  until  at  last 
I  find  myself  alone  among  the  rocks, 
Remember  then  that  I  have  left  you, —  try 
To  fly  back  to  you, — and  my  wings  are  gone ! 

DON  SILVA. 

A  wicked  dream  !     If  ever  I  left  you, 

Even  in  dreams,  it  was  some  demon  dragged  me, 

And  with  fierce  struggles  I  awaked  myself. 

FEDALMA. 

It  is  a  hateful  dream,  and  when  it  comes, — 

I  mean,  when  in  my  waking  hours  there  comes 

That  longing  to  be  free,  I  am  afraid : 

I  run  down  to  my  chamber,  plait  my  hair, 

Weave  colours  in  it,  lay  out  all  my  gauds, 

And  in  my  mind  make  new  ones  prettier. 

You  see  I  have  two  minds,  and  both  are  foolish. 

Sometimes  a  torrent  rushing  through  my  soul 

Escapes  in  wild  strange  wishes ;  presently, 

It  dwindles  to  a  little  babbling  rill 

And  plays  among  the  pebbles  and  the  flowers. 

Inez  will  have  it  I  lack  broidery, 

Says  naught  else  gives  content  to  noble  maids. 

But  I  have  never  broidered, —  never  will. 

No,  when  I  am  a  Duchess  and  a  wife 

I  shall  ride  forth  —  may  I  not  ?  —  by  your  side. 


io6  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes,  you  shall  ride  upon  a  palfrey,  black 
To  match  Bavieca.     Not  Queen  Isabel 
Will  be  a  sight  more  gladdening  to  men's  eyes, 
Than  my  dark  queen  Fedalma. 

FEDALMA. 

Ah,  but  you, 

You  are  my  king,  and  I  shall  tremble  still 
With  some  great  fear  that  throbs  within  my  love. 
Does  your  love  fear  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Ah,  yes !  all  preciousness 
To  mortal  hearts  is  guarded  by  a  fear. 
All  love  fears  loss,  and  most  that  loss  supreme, 
Its  own  perfection, —  seeing,  feeling  change 
From  high  to  lower,  dearer  to  less  dear. 
Can  love  be  careless  ?     If  we  lost  our  love 
What  should  we  find  ?  —  with  this  sweet  Past  torn  off, 
Our  lives  deep  scarred  just  where  their  beauty  lay  ? 
The  best  we  found  thenceforth  were  still  a  worse : 
The  only  better  is  a  Past  that  lives 
On  through  an  added  Present,  stretching  still 
In  hope  unchecked  by  shaming  memories 
To  life's  last  breath.     And  so  I  tremble  too 
Before  my  queen  Fedalma. 

FEDALMA. 

That  is  just. 

'T  were  hard  of  Love  to  make  us  women  fear 
And  leave  you  bold.     Yet  Love  is  not  quite  even. 
For  feeble  creatures,  little  birds  and  fawns, 
Are  shaken  more  by  fear,  while  large  strong  things 
Can  bear  it  stoutly.     So  we  women  still 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  107 

Are  not  well  dealt  with.    Yet  would  I  choose  to  be 

Fedalma  loving  Silva.     You,  my  lord, 

Hold  the  worse  share,  since  you  must  love  poor  me. 

But  is  it  what  we  love,  or  how  we  love, 

That  makes  true  good  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

0  subtlety !  for  me 

'T  is  what  I  love  determines  how  I  love. 
The  goddess  with  pure  rites  reveals  herself 
And  makes  pure  worship. 

FEDALMA. 

Do  you  worship  me  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Ay,  with  that  best  of  worship  which  adores 
Goodness  adorable. 

FEDALMA  (archly). 

Goodness  obedient, 
Doing  your  will,  devoutest  worshipper  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes, —  listening  to  this  prayer.     This  very  night 
I  shall  go  forth.     And  you  will  rise  with  day 
And  wait  for  me  ? 

FEDALMA. 
Yes. 

DON  SILVA. 

I  shall  surely  come. 

And  then  we  shall  be  married.  Now  I  go 
To  audience  fixed  in  Abderahman's  tower. 
Farewell,  love !  (They  embrace. ) 


io8  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FED  ALMA. 
Some  chill  dread  possesses  me  I 

DON  SILVA. 

Oh,  confidence  has  oft  been  evil  augury, 

So  dread  may  hold  a  promise.     Sweet,  farewell ! 

I  shall  send  tendance  as  I  pass,  to  bear 

This  casket  to  your  chamber.  —  One  more  kiss. 

(Exit.) 

FEDALMA  (when  DON  SILVA  is  gone,  returning  to  the 
casket,  and  looking  dreamily  at  the  jewels). 

Yes,  now  that  good  seems  less  impossible ! 

Now  it  seems  true  that  I  shall  be  his  wife, 

Be  ever  by  his  side,  and  make  a  part 

In  all  his  purposes.  .   .   . 

These  rubies  greet  me  Duchess.     How  they  glow ! 

Their  prisoned  souls  are  throbbing  like  my  own. 

Perchance  they  loved  once,  were  ambitious,  proud ; 

Or  do  they  only  dream  of  wider  life, 

Ache  from  intenseness,  yearn  to  burst  the  wall 

Compact  of  crystal  splendour,  and  to  flood 

Some  wider  space  with  glory  ?     Poor,  poor  gems ! 

We  must  be  patient  in  our  prison-house, 

And  find  our  space  in  loving.      Pray  you,  love  me. 

Let  us  be  glad  together.     And  you,  gold, — 

(She  takes  up  the  gold  necklace.) 
You  wondrous  necklace,  —  will  you  love  me  too, 
And  be  my  amulet  to  keep  me  safe 
From  eyes  that  hurt  ? 

(She   spreads   out   the   necklace,  meaning   to 

clasp  it  on  her  neck.    Then  pauses,  startled, 

holding  it  before  her.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  109 

Why,  it  is  magical ! 

He  says  he  never  wore  it, —  yet  these  lines, — 
Nay,  if  he  had,  I  should  remember  well 
'T  was  he,  no  other.     And  these  twisted  lines,— 
They  seem  to  speak  to  me  as  writing  would, 
To  bring  a  message  from  the  dead,  dead  past. 
What  is  their  secret  ?    Are  they  characters  ? 
I  never  learned  them ;  yet  they  stir  some  sense 
That  once  I  dreamed, —  I  have  forgotten  what. 
Or  was  it  life  ?     Perhaps  I  lived  before 
In   some   strange  world  where  first   my  soul  was 

shaped, 

And  all  this  passionate  love,  and  joy,  and  pain, 
That   come,   I   know  not  whence,    and   sway  my 

deeds, 

Are  dim  yet  mastering  memories,  blind  yet  strong, 
That  this  world  stirs  within  me ;  as  this  chain 
Stirs  some  strange  certainty  of  visions  gone, 
And  all  my  mind  is  as  an  eye  that  stares 
Into  the  darkness  painfully. 

(While  FEDALMA  has  been,  looking  at  the  neck- 
lace, JUAN  has  entered,  and  finding  himself 
unobserved  by  her,  says  at  last,) 
Senora ! 

FEDALMA  starts,  and  gathering  the  necklace  together 
turns  round  — 

0  Juan,  it  is  you ! 

JUAN. 

I  met  the  Duke, — 

Had  waited  long  without,  no  matter  why, — 
And  when  he  ordered  one  to  wait  on  you 
And  carry  forth  a  burden  you  would  give, 

1  prayed  for  leave  to  be  the  servitor. 


no  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Don  Silva  owes  me  twenty  granted  wishes 
That  I  have  never  tendered,  lacking  aught 
That  I  could  wish  for  and  a  Duke  could  grant ; 
But  this  one  wish  to  serve  you,  weighs  as  much 
As  twenty  other  longings. 

FEDALMA  (smiling], 

That  sounds  well. 

You  turn  your  speeches  prettily  as  songs. 
But  I  will  not  forget  the  many  days 
You  have  neglected  me.     Your  pupil  learns 
But  little  from  you  now.      Her  studies  flag. 
The  Duke  says,  "  That  is  idle  Juan's  way : 
Poets  must  rove,  —  are  honey-sucking  birds 
And  know  not  constancy. "     Said  he  quite  true  ? 

JUAN. 

0  lady,  constancy  has  kind  and  rank. 

One  man's  is  lordly,  plump,  and  bravely  clad, 

Holds    its   head   high,    and    tells    the   world    its 

name : 

Another  man's  is  beggared,  must  go  bare, 
And  shiver  through  the  world,  the  jest  of  all, 
But  that  it  puts  the  motley  on,  and  plays 
Itself  the  jester.      But  I  see  you  hold 
The  Gypsy's  necklace:  it  is  quaintly  wrought. 

FED  ALMA. 
The  Gypsy's  ?     Do  you  know  its  history  ? 

JUAN. 

No  further  back  than  when  I  saw  it  taken 
From  off  its  wearer's  neck, —  the  Gypsy  chief's. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  in 

FEDALMA  (eagerly). 

What !  he  who  paused,  at  tolling  of  the  bell, 
Before  me  in  the  Pla^a  ? 

JUAN. 

Yes,  I  saw 
His  look  fixed  on  you. 

FEDALMA. 

Know  you  aught  of  him  ? 

JUAN. 

Something  and  nothing,  —  as  I  know  the  sky, 

Or  some  great  story  of  the  olden  time 

That   hides   a   secret.      I    have   oft    talked   with 

him. 

He  seems  to  say  much,  yet  is  but  a  wizard 
Who  draws  down  rain  by  sprinkling ;   throws  mo 

out 

Some  pregnant  text  that  urges  comment ;  casts 
A  sharp-hooked  question,  baited  with  such  skill 
It  needs  must  catch  the  answer. 

FEDALMA. 

It  is  hard 

That  such  a  man  should  be  a  prisoner, — 
Be  chained  to  work. 

JUAN. 

Oh,  he  is  dangerous  ! 
Granada  with  this  Zarca  for  a  king 
Might  still  maim  Christendom.     He  is  of  those 
Who  steal  the  keys  from  snoring  Destiny 


ii2  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  make  the  prophets  lie.     A  Gypsy,  too, 
Suckled  by  hunted  beasts,  whose  mother-milk 
Has  rilled  his  veins  with  hate. 

FED  ALMA. 

I  thought  his  eyes 

Spoke  not  of  hatred, —  seemed  to  say  he  bore 
The  pain  of  those  who  never  could  be  saved. 
What  if  the  Gypsies  are  but  savage  beasts 
And  must  be  hunted  ?  —  let  them  be  set  free, 
Have  benefit  of  chase,  or  stand  at  bay 
And  fight  for  life  and  offspring.     Prisoners ! 
Oh,  they  have  made  their  fires  beside  the  streams, 
Their  walls  have  been  the  rocks,  the  pillared  pines, 
Their   roof   the    living    sky   that    breathes   with 

light : 
They  may  well  hate  a  cage,   like   strong-winged 

birds, 

Like  me,  who  have  no  wings,  but  only  wishes. 
I  will  beseech  the  Duke  to  set  them  free. 

JUAN. 

Pardon  me,  lady,  if  I  seem  to  warn, 
Or  try  to  play  the  sage.     What  if  the  Duke 
Loved  not  to  hear  of  Gypsies  ?  if  their  name 
Were  poisoned  for  him  once,  being  used  amiss  ? 
I  speak  not  as  of  fact.     Our  nimble  souls 
Can  spin  an  insubstantial  universe 
Suiting  our  mood,  and  call  it  possible, 
Sooner  than  see  one  grain  with  eye  exact 
And  give  strict  record  of  it.     Yet  by  chance 
Our  fancies  may  be  truth  and  make  us  seers. 
'T  is  a  rare  teeming  world,  so  harvest-full, 
Even  guessing  ignorance  may  pluck  some  fruit. 
Note  what  I  say  no  further  than  will  stead 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  113 

The  siege  you  lay.     I  would  not  seem  to  tell 
Aught  that  the  Duke  may  think  and  yet  withhold : 
It  were  a  trespass  in  me. 

FEDALMA. 

Fear  not,  Juan. 
Your  words  bring  daylight  with  them  when  you 

speak. 

I  understand  your  care.     But  I  am  brave, — 
Oh,  and  so  cunning!  —  always  I  prevail. 
Now,  honoured  Troubadour,  if  you  will  be 
Your  pupil's  servant,  bear  this  casket  hence. 
Nay,  not  the  necklace :  it  is  hard  to  place. 
Pray  go  before  me ;  Inez  will  be  there. 

(Exit  JUAN  with  the  casket.} 

FEDALMA  (looking  again  at  the  necklace). 

It  is  his  past  clings  to  you,  not  my  own. 
If  we  have  each  our  angels,  good  and  bad, 
Fates,  separate  from  ourselves,  who  act  for  us 
When  we  are  blind,  or  sleep,  then  this  man's  fate, 
Hovering  about  the  thing  he  used  to  wear, 
Has  laid  its  grasp  on  mine  appealingly. 
Dangerous,  is  he  ?  —  well,  a  Spanish  knight 
Would  have  his  enemy  strong,  —  defy,  not   bind 

him. 

I  can  dare  all  things  when  my  soul  is  moved 
By  something  hidden  that  possesses  me. 
If  Silva  said  this  man  must  keep  his  chains 
I  should  find  ways  to  free  him,  —  disobey 
And  free  him  as  I  did  the  birds.     But  no ! 
As  soon  as  we  are  wed,  I  '11  put  my  prayer, 
And  he  will  not  deny  me :  he  is  good. 
Oh,  I  shall  have  much  power  as  well  as  joy ! 
Duchess  Fedalma  may  do  what  she  will. 

VOL.    I.  —  8 


ii4  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

A  Street  by  the  Castle.  JUAN  leans  against  a  para- 
pet, in  moonlight,  and  touches  his  lute  half  un- 
consciously. PEPITA  stands  on  tiptoe  watching 
him,  and  then  advances  till  her  shadow  falls  in 
front  of  him.  He  looks  towards  her.  A  piece 
of  white  drapery  thrown  over  her  head  catches 
the  moonlight. 

JUAN. 

Ha !  my  Pepita !  see  how  thin  and  long 
Your  shadow  is.      T  is  so  your  ghost  will  be, 
When  you  are  dead. 

PEPITA  (crossing  herself  ). 

Dead  !  —  Oh  the  blessed  saints  ! 
You  would  be  glad,  then,  if  Pepita  died  ? 

JUAN. 

Glad !  why  ?   Dead  maidens  are  not  merry.    Ghosts 
Are  doleful  company.     I  like  you  living. 

PEPITA. 

I  think  you  like  me  not.     I  wish  you  did. 
Sometimes  you  sing  to  me  and  make  me  dance. 
Another  time  you  take  no  heed  of  me, 
Not  though  I  kiss  my  hand  to  you  and  smile. 
But  Andres  would  be  glad  if  I  kissed  him. 

JUAN. 
My  poor  Pepita,  I  am  old. 

PEPITA. 

No,  no. 
YOU  have  no  wrinkles. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  115 

JUAN. 

Yes,  I  have  —  within ; 
The  wrinkles  are  within,  my  little  bird. 
Why,  I  have  lived  through  twice  a  thousand  years, 
And  kept  the  company  of  men  whose  bones 
Crumbled  before  the  blessed  Virgin  lived. 

PEPITA  (crossing  herself). 

Nay,  God  defend  us,  that  is  wicked  talk ! 
You   say  it   but  to   scorn   me.     (With  a  sob.)     I 
will  go. 

JUAN. 

Stay,  little  pigeon.     I  am  not  unkind. 

Come,  sit  upon  the  wall.     Nay,  never  cry. 

Give  me  your  cheek  to  kiss.     There,  cry  no  more ! 

(PEPITA,  sitting  on  the  low  parapet,  puts  up 
her  cheek  to  JUAN,  who  kisses  it,  putting  his 
hand  under  her  chin.  She  takes  his  hand 
and  kisses  it.) 

PEPITA, 

I  like  to  kiss  your  hand.     It  is  so  good, — 
So  smooth  and  soft. 

JUAN. 

Well,  well,  I  '11  sing  to  you. 

PEPITA. 
A  pretty  song,  loving  and  merry  ? 

JUAN. 

Yes. 


n6  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

(JUAN  sings.) 

Memory, 
Tell  to  me 
Wliat  is  fair, 
Past  compare, 

In  the  land  of  Tubal  ? 

Is  it  Spring's 
Lovely  things, 
Blossoms  white, 
Rosy  dight  ? 

Then  it  is  Pepita. 

Summer's  crest 
Red-gold  tressed, 

Corn-flowers  peeping  under  /  — 
Idle  noons, 
Lingering  moons, 
Sudden  cloud, 
Lightning's  shroud, 
Sudden  rain, 
Quick  again 

Smiles  where  late  was  thunder  ? 

Are  all  these 
Made  to  please  ? 
So  too  is  Pepita. 

Autumn's  prime, 
Apple-time, 
Smooth  cheek  round. 
Heart  all  sound  ?  — 
Is  it  this 
You  would  hiss  ? 
TJien  it  is  Pepita, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  117 

You  can  "bring 
No  sweet  thing, 
But  my  mind 
Still  shall  find 
It  is  my  Pepita. 

Memory 
Says  to  me 
It  is  she, — 
She  is  fair 
Past  compare 

In  the  land  of  Tubal. 

PEPIAT  (seizing  JUAN'S  hand  again). 
Oh,  then,  you  do  love  me  1 

JUAN. 

Yes,  in  the  song. 

PEPITA  (sadly). 
Not  out  of  it  ?  —  not  love  me  out  of  it  ? 

JUAN. 

Only  a  little  out  of  it,  my  bird. 

When  I  was  singing  I  was  Andres,  say, 

Or  one  who  loves  you  better  still  than  Andres. 

PEPITA. 
Not  yourself  ? 

JUAN. 

No! 


PEPITA  (throwing  Ms  hand  down  pettishly). 
I  will  not  have  it ! 


Then  take  it  back  again ! 


n8  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

JUAN. 

Listen,  little  one. 

Juan  is  not  a  living  man  all  by  himself: 
His  life  is  breathed  in  him  by  other  men, 
And  they  speak  out  of  him.     He  is  their  voice. 
Juan's  own  life  he  gave  once  quite  away. 
It  was  Pepita's  lover  singing  then, —  not  Juan. 
We  old,  old  poets,  if  we  kept  our  hearts, 
Should  hardly  know  them  from  another  man's. 
They  shrink  to  make  room  for  the  many  more 
We    keep   within    us.      There,    now, —  one    more 

kiss, 
And  then  go  home  again. 

PEPITA  (a  little  frightened,  after  letting  JUAN 
kiss  her). 

You  are  not  wicked  ? 

JUAN. 
Ask  your  confessor, —  tell  him  what  I  said. 

(PEPITA  goes,   while  JUAN   thrums  his   lute 
again,  and  sings.) 

Came  a  pretty  maid 

By  the  moon's  pure  light. 
Loved  me  well,  she  said. 

Eyes  with  tears  all  bright, 
A  pretty  maid  ! 

But  too  late  she  strayed, 
Moonlight  pure  was  there  ; 

She  was  naught  but  shade 
Hiding  the  more  fair, 
The  heavenly  maid  I 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  119 

A  vaulted  room  all  stone.  The  light  shed  from  a 
high  lamp.  Wooden  chairs,  a  desk,  book-shelves. 
The  PKIOR,  in  white  frock,  a  black  rosary  with  a 
crucifix  of  ebony  and  ivory  at  his  side,  is  walk- 
ing up  and  down,  holding  a  written  paper  in  his 
hands,  which  are  clasped  behind  him. 

What  if  this  witness  lies  ?  he  says  he  heard  her 
Counting  her  blasphemies  on  a  rosary, 
And  in  a  bold  discourse  with  Salomo, 
Say  that  the  Host  was  naught  but  ill-mixed  flour, 
That  it  was  mean  to  pray,  —  she  never  prayed. 
I  know  the  man  who  wrote  this  for  a  cur, 
Who  follows  Don  Diego,  sees  life's  good 
In  scraps  my  nephew  flings  to  him.     What  then  ? 
Particular  lies  may  speak  a  general  truth. 
I  guess  him  false,  but  know  her  heretic,  — 
Know  her  for  Satan's  instrument,  bedecked 
With  heathenish  charms,  luring  the  souls  of  men 
To  damning  trust  in  good  unsanctified. 
Let  her  be  prisoned, —  questioned, — she  will  give 
Witness  against  herself,  that  were  this  false  .   .   . 
(He  looks  at  the  paper  again  and  reads,  then 
again  thrusts  it  behind  him.} 

The  matter  and  the  colour  are  not  false : 

The  form  concerns  the  witness,  not  the  judge ; 

For  proof  is  gathered  by  the  sifting  mind, 

Not  given  in  crude  and  formal  circumstance. 

Suspicion  is  a  heaven-sent  lamp,  and  I,  — 

I,  watchman  of  the  Holy  Office,  bear 

That  lamp  in  trust.     I  will  keep  faithful  watch. 

The  Holy  Inquisition's  discipline 

Is  mercy,  saving  her,  if  penitent, — 

God  grant  it !  —  else,  —  root  up  the  poison-plant, 


120  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Though  't  were  a  lily  with  a  golden  heart ! 

This  spotless  maiden  with  her  pagan  soul 

Is  the  arch-enemy's  trap :  he  turns  his  back 

On  all  the  prostitutes,  and  watches  her 

To  see  her  poison  men  with  false  belief 

In  rebel  virtues.     She  has  poisoned  Silva ; 

His  shifting  mind,  dangerous  in  fitfulness, 

Strong  in  the  contradiction  of  itself, 

Carries  his  young  ambitions  wearily, 

As  holy  vows  regretted.     Once  he  seemed 

The  fresh-oped  flower  of  Christian  knighthood,  born 

For  feats  of  holy  daring  ;  and  I  said : 

"  That  half  of  life  which  I,  as  monk,  renounce, 

Shall  be  fulfilled  in  him  :  Silva  will  be 

That  saintly  noble,  that  wise  warrior, 

That  blameless  excellence  in  worldly  gifts 

I  would  have  been,  had  I  not  asked  to  live 

The  higher  life  of  man  impersonal 

Who  reigns  o'er  all  things  by  refusing  all. 

What  is  his  promise  now  ?     Apostasy 

From  every  high  intent :  —  languid,  nay,  gone, 

The  prompt  devoutness  of  a  generous  heart, 

The  strong  obedience  of  a  reverent  will, 

That  breathes  the  Church's  air  and  sees  her  light, 

He  peers  and  strains  with  feeble  questioning, 

Or  else  he  jests.     He  thinks  I  know  it  not, — 

I  who  have  read  the  history  of  his  lapse, 

As  clear  as  it  is  writ  in  the  angel's  book. 

He  will  defy  me,  —  flings  great  words  at  me,  — 

Me  who  have  governed  all  our  house's  acts, 

Since  I,  a  stripling,  ruled  his  stripling  father. 

This  maiden  is  the  cause,  and  if  they  wed, 

The  Holy  War  may  count  a  captain  lost. 

For  better  he  were  dead  than  keep  his  place, 

And  fill  it  infamously  :  in  God's  war 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  121 

Slackness  is  infamy.     Shall  I  stand  by 

And  let  the  tempter  win  ?  defraud  Christ's  cause, 

And  blot  his  banner  ?  —  all  for  scruples  weak 

Of  pity  towards  their  young  and  frolicsome  blood ; 

Or  nice  discrimination  of  the  tool 

By  which  my  hand  shall  work  a  sacred  rescue  ? 

The  fence  of  rules  is  for  the  purblind  crowd ; 

They  walk  by  averaged  precepts ;  sovereign  men, 

Seeing  by  God's  light,  see  the  general 

By  seeing  all  the  special,  —  own  no  rule 

But  their  full  vision  of  the  moment's  worth. 

'T  is  so  God  governs,  using  wicked  men,  — 

Nay,  scheming  fiends,  to  work  his  purposes. 

Evil  that  good  may  come  ?     Measure  the  good 

Before  you  say  what 's  evil.     Perjury  ? 

I  scorn  the  perjurer,  but  I  will  use  him 

To  serve  the  holy  truth.     There  is  no  lie 

Save  in  his  soul,  and  let  his  soul  be  judged. 

I  know  the  truth,  and  act  upon  the  truth. 

0  God,  thou  knowest  that  my  will  is  pure. 

Thy  servant  owns  naught  for  himself,  his  wealth 

Is  but  obedience.     And  I  have  sinned 

In  keeping  small  respects  of  human  love,  — 

Calling  it  mercy.     Mercy  ?     Where  evil  is 

True  mercy  must  be  terrible.     Mercy  would  save. 

Save  whom  ?     Save  serpents,  locusts,  wolves  ? 

Or  out  of  pity  let  the  idiots  gorge 

Within  a  famished  town  ?     Or  save  the  gains 

Of  men  who  trade  in  poison  lest  they  starve  ? 

Save  all  things  mean  and  foul  that  clog  the  earth 

Stifling  the  better  ?     Save  the  fools  who  cling 

For  refuge  round  their  hideous  idol's  limbs, 

So  leave  the  idol  grinning  unconsumed, 

And  save  the  fools  to  breed  idolaters  ? 


124  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Oh  mercy  worthy  of  the  licking  hound 

That  knows  no  future  but  its  feeding  time ! 

Mercy  has  eyes  that  pierce  the  ages,  —  sees 

From  heights  divine  of  the  eternal  purpose 

Far-scattered  consequence  in  its  vast  sum ; 

Chooses  to  save,  but  with  illumined  vision 

Sees  that  to  save  is  greatly  to  destroy. 

'T  is  so  the  Holy  Inquisition  sees :  its  wrath 

Is  fed  from  the  strong  heart  of  wisest  love. 

For  love  must  needs  make  hatred.     He  who  loves 

God  and  his  law  must  hate  the  foes  of  God. 

And  I  have  sinned  in  being  merciful : 

Being  slack  in  hate,  I  have  been  slack  in  love. 

(He  takes  the  crucifix  and  holds  it  up  before 
him) 

Thou  shuddering,  bleeding,  thirsting,  dying  God, 
Thou  Man  of  Sorrows,  scourged  and  bruised  and  torn, 
Suffering  to  save,  —  wilt  thou  not  judge  the  world  ? 
This  arm  which  held  the  children,  this  pale  hand 
That  gently  touched  the  eyelids  of  the  blind, 
And  opened  passive  to  the  cruel  nail, 
Shall  one  day  stretch  to  leftward  of  thy  throne, 
Charged  with  the  power  that  makes  the  lightning 

strong, 

And  hurl  thy  foes  to  everlasting  hell. 
And  thou,  Immaculate  Mother,  Virgin  mild, 
Thou    seven-fold    pierced,   thou    pitying,   pleading 

Queen, 

Shalt  see  and  smile,  while  the  black  filthy  souls 
Sink  with  foul  weight  to  their  eternal  place, 
Purging  the  Holy  Light.     Yea,  I  have  sinned 
And  called  it  mercy.     But  I  shrink  no  more. 
To-morrow  rnorn  this  temptress  shall  be  safe 
Under  the  Holy  Inquisition's  key. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  123 

He  thinks  to  wed  her,  and  defy  me  then, 
She  being  shielded  by  our  house's  name. 
But  he  shall  never  wed  her.     I  have  said. 

The  time  is  come.     Exurge,  Domine, 
Judica  causam  tuam.     Let  thy  foes 
Be  driven  as  the  smoke  before  the  wind, 
And  melt  like  wax  upon  the  furnace  lip ! 


A  large  chamber  richly  furnished  opening  on  a, 
terrace-garden,  the  trees  visible  through  the  window 
in  faint  moonlight.  Flowers  hanging  about  the 
window,  lit  up  by  the  tapers.  The  casket  of  jewels 
open  on  a  table.  The  gold  necklace  lying  near. 
FEDALMA,  splendidly  dressed  and  adorned  with 
pearls  and  rubies,  is  walking  up  and  down. 

So  soft  a  night  was  never  made  for  sleep, 

But  for  the  waking  of  the  finer  sense 

To  every  murmuring  and  gentle  sound, 

To  subtlest  odours,  pulses,  visitings 

That  touch  our  frames  with  wings  too  delicate 

To  be  discerned  amid  the  blare  of  day. 

(She  pauses  near  the  window  to  gather  some 

jasmine  :  then  walks  again.) 
Surely   these   flowers   keep   happy   watch,  —  their 

breath 

Is  their  fond  memory  of  the  loving  light. 
I  often  rue  the  hours  I  lose  in  sleep : 
It  is  a  bliss  too  brief,  only  to  see 
This  glorious  world,  to  hear  the  voice  of  love, 
To  feel  the  touch,  the  breath  ^of  tenderness, 
And  then  to  rest  as  from  a  spectacle. 
I  need  the  curtained  stillness  of  the  night 


124  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

To  live  through  all  my  happy  hours  again 

With  more  selection,  —  cull  them  quite  away 

From  blemished  moments.     Then  in  loneliness 

The  face  that  bent  before  me  in  the  day 

Rises  in  its  own  light,  more  vivid  seems 

Painted  upon  the  dark,  and  ceaseless  glows 

With  sweet  solemnity  of  gazing  love, 

Till  like  the  heavenly  blue  it  seems  to  grow 

Nearer,  more  kindred,  and  more  cherishing, 

Mingling  with  all  my  being.     Then  the  words, 

The  tender  low-toned  words  come  back  again, 

With  repetition  welcome  as  the  chime 

Of  softly  hurrying  brooks,  —  "  My  only  love,  — 

My  love  while  life  shall  last,  —  my  own  Fedalma ! " 

Oh,  it  is  mine,  —  the  joy  that  once  has  been  1 

Poor  eager  hope  is  but  a  stammerer, 

Must  listen  dumbly  to  great  memory, 

Who  makes  our  bliss  the  sweeter  by  her  telling. 

(She  pauses  a  moment  musingly.) 

But  that  dumb  hope  is  still  a  sleeping  guard 

Whose  quiet  rhythmic  breath  saves  me  from  dread 

In  this  fair  paradise.     For  if  the  earth 

Broke  off  with  flower-fringed  edge,  visibly  sheer, 

Leaving  no  footing  for  my  forward  step 

But  empty  blackness  .  .  . 

Nay,  there  is  no  fear,  — 

They  will  renew  themselves,  day  and  my  joy, 
And  all  that  past  which  is  securely  mine, 
Will  be  the  hidden  root  that  nourishes 
Our  still  unfolding,  ever-ripening  love ! 

( While  she  is  uttering  the  last  words,  a  little 
bird  falls  softly  on  the  Jloor  behind  her ; 
she  hears  the  light  sound  of  its  fall  and 
turns  round.) 


"  My  father  .  .   .  comes  .  .  .  my  father." 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  125 

Did  something  enter  ?  .  .  . 

Yes,  this  little  bird  .  .  . 
(She  lifts  it.) 

Dead  and  yet  warm :  't  was  seeking  sanctuary, 
And  died,  perhaps  of  fright,  at  the  altar  foot. 
Stay,  there  is  something  tied  beneath  the  wing ! 
A  strip  of  linen,  streaked  with  blood,  —  what  blood  ? 
The  streaks  are  written  words,  —  are  sent  to  me,  — 

0  God,  are  sent  to  me !     Dear  child,  Fedalma, 
Be  brave,  give  no  alarm,  —  your  Father  comes  ! 

(She  lets  the  bird  fall  again.) 
My  Father  .  .  .  comes  .  .  .  my  Father.  .  .  . 

(She  turns  in  quivering  expectation  toward  the 
window.  There  is  perfect  stillness  a  few  mo- 
ments until  ZARCA  appears  at  the  window. 
He  enters  quickly  and  noiselessly;  then 
stands  still  at  his  full  height,  and  at  a  dis- 
tance from  FEDALMA.) 

FEDALMA  (in  a  low  distinct  tone  of  terror). 

It  is  he ! 

1  said  his  fate  had  laid  its  hold  on  mine. 

ZARCA  (advancing  a  step  or  two). 
You  know,  then,  who  I  am  ? 

FEDALMA. 

The  prisoner,  — 
He  whom  I  saw  in  fetters,  —  and  this  necklace  — 

ZARCA. 

Was  played  with  by  your  fingers  when  it  hung    • 
About  my  neck,  full  fifteen  years  ago ! 


126  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FEDALMA  (starts,  looks  at  the  necklace,  and  handles 
it,  then  speaks  as  if  unconsciously). 

Full  fifteen  years  ago ! 

ZAKCA. 

The  very  day 

I  lost  you,  when  you  wore  a  tiny  gown 
Of  scarlet  cloth  with  golden  broidery : 
'T  was   clasped    in   front    by  coins,  —  two   golden 

coins. 

The  one  towards  the  left  was  split  in  two 
Across  the  King's  head,  right  from  brow  to  nape, 
A  dent  i'  the  middle  nicking  in  the  cheek. 
You  see  I  know  the  little  gown  by  heart. 

FEDALMA  (growing  paler  and  more  tremulous). 

Yes.-    It  is  true,  —  I  have  the  gown,  —  the  clasps,— 
The  braid,  —  sore  tarnished :  —  it  is  long  ago ! 

ZARCA. 

But  yesterday  to  me ;  for  till  to-day 
I  saw  you  always  as  that  little  child. 
And  when  they  took  my  necklace  from  me,  still 
Your  fingers  played  about  it  on  my  neck, 
And  still  those  buds  of  fingers  on  your  feet 
Caught  in  its  meshes  as  you  seemed  to  climb 
Up  to  my  shoulder.     You  were  not  stolen  alL 
You  had  a  double  life  fed  from  my  heart.  .  .  . 

(FEDALMA,  letting  fall  the  necklace,  makes  an 
impulsive  movement  towards  him  with  out- 
stretched hands.) 

For  the  Zincalo  loves  his  children  well 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  127 

FEDALMA  (shrinking,  trembling,  and  letting  fall  her 
hands). 

How  came  it  that  you  sought  me,  —  no,  —  I  mean 
How  came  it  that  you  knew  me,  —  that  you  lost  me  ? 

ZARCA  (standing  perfectly  still). 

Poor  child !     I  see,  I  see,  —  your  ragged  father 
Is  welcome  as  the  piercing  wintry  wind 
Within  this  silken  chamber.     It  is  well. 
I  would  not  have  a  child  who  stooped  to  feign, 
And  aped  a  sudden  love.     True  hate  were  better. 

FEDALMA  (raising  her  eyes  towards  him,  with. a  flash 
of  admiration,  and  looking  at  him  fixedly). 

Father,  how  was  it  that  we  lost  each  other  ? 

ZARCA. 

I  lost  you  as  a  man  may  lose  a  diamond 

Wherein  he  has  compressed  his  total  wealth, 

Or    the    right    hand   whose   cunning    makes   him 

great : 

I  lost  you  by  a  trivial  accident. 
Marauding  Spaniards,  sweeping  like  a  storm 
Over  a  spot  within  the  Moorish  bounds, 
Near  where  our  camp  lay,  doubtless  snatched  you  up, 
When   Zind,   your  nurse,   as    she    confessed,  was 

urged 

By  burning  thirst  to  wander  towards  the  stream, 
And  leave  you  on  the  sand  some  paces  off 
Playing  with  pebbles,  while  she  dog-like  lapped. 
'T  was  so  I  lost  you,  —  never  saw  you  more 
Until  to-day  I  saw  you  dancing !     Saw 
The  child  of  the  Zincalo  making  sport 
For  those  who  spit  upon  her  people's  name. 


128  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FED  ALMA  (vehemently*). 

It  was  not  sport.     What  if  the  world  looked  on  ?  — 
I  danced  for  joy,  —  for  love  of  all  the  world. 
But  when  you  looked  at  me  my  joy  was  stabbed,  — 
Stabbed  with  your  pain.     I  wondered  .  ,  .  now  I 

know  .  .  . 
It  was  my  father's  pain. 

(She  pauses  a  moment  with  eyes  "bent  down- 
ward, during  which  ZARCA  examines  her 
face.  Then  she  says  quickly,} 

How  were  you  sure 
At  once  I  was  your  child  ? 

ZARCA. 

Oh,  I  had  witness  strong 
As  any  Cadi  needs,  before  I  saw  you  ! 
I  fitted  all  my  memories  with  the  chat 
Of  one  named  Juan,  —  one  whose  rapid  talk 
Showers   like   the   blossoms   from   a   light-twigged 

shrub, 

If  you  but  coughed  beside  it.     I  learned  all 
The  story  of  your  Spanish  nurture,  —  all 
The  promise  of  your  fortune.     When  at  last 
I  fronted  you,  my  little  maid  full-grown, 
Belief  was  turned  to  vision :  then  I  saw 
That  she  whom  Spaniards   called   the   bright   Fe- 

dalma,  — 

The  little  red-frocked  foundling  three  years  old,  — 
Grown  to  such  perfectness  the  Christian  Duke 
Had  wooed  her  for  his  Duchess,  —  was  the  child, 
Sole  offspring  of  my  flesh,  that  Lambra  bore 
One  hour  before  the  Christian,  hunting  us, 
Hurried  her  on  to  death.     Therefore  I  sought  you, 
Therefore  I  come  to  claim  you  —  claim  my  child, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  129 

Not  from  the  Spaniard,  not  from  him  who  robbed, 

But  from  herself. 

(FEDALMA  has  gradually  approached  close  to 
ZARCA,  and  with  a  low  sob  sinks  on  her 
knees  before  him.  He  stoops  to  kiss  her 
brow,  and  lays  his  hands  on  her  head.) 

ZARCA  (with  solemn  tenderness). 
Then  my  child  owns  her  father  ? 

FEDALMA. 

Father!  yes. 

I  will  eat  dust  before  I  will  deny 
The  flesh  I  spring  from. 

ZARCA. 

There  my  daughter  spoke. 
Away  then  with  these  rubies  ! 

(He  seizes  the  circlet  of  rubies  and  flings  it  on 
the  ground.  FEDALMA,  starting  from  the 
ground  with  strong  emotion,  shrinks  back- 
ward.) 

Such  a  crown 

Is  infamy  on  a  Zincala's  brow. 
It  is  her  people's  blood,  decking  her  shame. 

FEDALMA  (after  a  moment,  slowly  and  distinctly,  as 
if  accepting  a  doom), 

Then  ...  I  am  ...  a  Zincala  ? 

ZARCA. 

Of  a  blood 
Unmixed  as  virgin  wine-juice. 

VOL.  I.  9 


«3o  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FEDALMA. 

Of  a  race 
More  outcast  and  despised  than  Moor  or  Jew  ? 

ZARCA. 

Yes :  wanderers  whom  no  god  took  knowledge  of 
To  give  them  laws,  to  fight  for  them,  or  blight 
Another  race  to  make  them  ampler  room ; 
A  people  with  no  home  even  in  memory, 
No  dimmest  lore  of  giant  ancestors 
To  make  a  common  hearth  for  piety. 

FED  ALMA. 

A  race  that  lives  on  prey  as  foxes  do 

With  stealthy,  petty  rapine :  so  despised, 

It  is  not  persecuted,  only  spurned, 

Crushed  underfoot,  warred  on  by  chance  like  rats, 

Or  swarming  flies,  or  reptiles  of  the  sea 

Dragged  in  the  net  unsought,  and  flung  far  off 

To  perish  as  they  may  ? 

ZARCA. 

You  paint  us  well. 

So  abject  are  the  men  whose  blood  we  share ; 
Untutored,  unbefriended,  unendowed ; 
Xo  favourites  of  heaven  or  of  men. 
Therefore  I  cling  to  them  !     Therefore  no  lure 
Shall  draw  me  to  disown  them,  or  forsake 
The  meagre  wandering  herd  that  lows  for  help 
And  needs  me  for  its  guide,  to  seek  my  pasture 
Among  the  well-fed  beeves  that  graze  at  will 
Because  our  race  have  no  great  memories, 
I  will  so  live  they  shall  remember  me 
For  deeds  of  such  divine  beneficence 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  131 

As  rivers  have,  that  teach  men  what  is  good 

By  blessing  them.     I  have  been  schooled,  —  have 

caught 

Lore  from  the  Hebrew,  deftness  from  the  Moor,  • — 
Know  the  rich  heritage,  the  milder  life, 
Of  nations  fathered  by  a  mighty  Past ; 
But  were  our  race  accursed  (as  they  who  make 
Good  luck  a  god  count  all  unlucky  men) 
I  would  espouse  their  curse  sooner  than  take 
My  gifts  from  brethren  naked  of  all  good, 
And  lend  them  to  the  rich  for  usury. 

(FEDALMA  again  advances,  and  putting  forth 
her  right  hand  grasps  ZARCA'S  left.  He 
places  his  other  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
They  stand  so,  looking  at  each  other.) 

ZAECA. 

And  you,  my  child  ?  are  you  of  other  mind, 
Choosing  forgetfulness,  hating  the  truth 
That  says  you  are  akin  to  needy  men  ?  — 
Wishing  your  father  were  some  Christian  Duke, 
Who  could  hang  Gypsies  when  their  task  was  done, 
While  you,  his  daughter,  were  not  bound  to  care  ? 

FEDALMA  (in  a  troubled,  eager  voice). 
No,  I  should  always  care  —  I  cared  for  you  — 
For  all,  before  I  dreamed  .  .  . 

ZARCA. 

Before  you  dreamed 

You  were  a  born  Zincala,  —  in  the  bonds 
Of  the  Zincali's  faith. 

FEDALMA  (bitterly). 

Zincali's  faith  ? 
Men  say  they  have  none. 


132  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

ZARCA. 

Oh,  it  is  a  faith 

Taught  by  no  priest,  but  by  their  beating  hearts. 
Faith  to  each  other :  the  fidelity 
Of  fellow- wanderers  in  a  desert  place 
Who    share   the    same    dire   thirst,   and   therefore 

share 

The  scanty  water :  the  fidelity 
Of  men  whose  pulses  leap  with  kindred  fire, 
"Who  in  the  flash  of  eyes,  the  clasp  of  hands, 
The  speech  that  even  in  lying  tells  the  truth 
Of  heritage  inevitable  as  past  deeds, 
Nay,  in  the  silent  bodily  presence  feel 
The  mystic  stirring  of  a  common  life 
Which  makes  the  many  one :  fidelity 
To  that  deep  consecrating  oath  our  sponsor  Fate 
Made   through    our  infant   breath  when  we  were 

born, 

The  fellow-heirs  of  that  small  island,  Life, 
Where  we  must  dig  and  sow  and  reap  with  brothers. 
Fear    thou     that    oath,   iny   daughter,  —  nay,  not 

fear, 

But  love  it ;  for  the  sanctity  of  oaths 
Lies  not  in  lightning  that  avenges  them, 
But  in  the  injury  wrought  by  broken  bonds 
And  in  the  garnered  good  of  human  trust. 
And    you    have   sworn,  —  even  with    your  infant 

breath 
You  too  were  pledged  .  .  . 

FEDALMA  (lets  go  ZARCA'S  hand  and  sinlj  backward 
on  her  knees,  with  bent  head,  as  if  before  some  im- 
pending crushing  weight). 

What  have  I  sworn  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  133 

ZARCA. 

To  live  the  life  of  the  Zincala's  child : 

The  child  of  him  who,  being  chief,  will  be 

The  saviour  of  his  tribe,  or  if  he  fail 

Will  choose  to  fail  rather  than  basely  win 

The  prize  of  renegades.     Nay  —  will  not  choose  — 

Is  there  a  choice  for  strong  souls  to  be  weak  ? 

For  men  erect  to  crawl  like  hissing  snakes  ? 

I  choose  not,  —  I  am  Zarca.     Let  him  choose 

Who  halts  and  wavers,  having  appetite 

To  feed  on  garbage.     You,  my  child,  —  are  you 

Halting  and  wavering  ? 

FEDALMA  (raising  her  head). 

Say  what  is  my  task  ? 

ZARCA. 

To  be  the  angel  of  a  homeless  tribe : 

To  help  me  bless  a  race  taught  by  no  prophet, 

And  make  their  name,  now  but  a  badge  of  scorn, 

A  glorious  banner  floating  in  their  midst, 

Stirring  the  air  they  breathe  with  impulses 

Of  generous  pride,  exalting  fellowship 

Until  it  soars  to  magnanimity. 

1 11  guide  my  brethren  forth  to  their  new  land, 

Where  they  shall   plant  and  sow  and  reap   their 

own, 

Serving  each  other's  needs,  and  so  be  spurred 
To  skill  in  all  the  arts  that  succour  life ; 
Where  we  may  kindle  our  first  altar-fire 
From  settled  hearths,  and  call  our  Holy  Place 
The  hearth  that  binds  us  in  one  family. 
That  land  awaits  them :  they  await  their  chief,  — 
Me  who  am  prisoned.     All  depends  on  you. 


134  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FEDALMA  (rising  to  her  full  height,  and  looking  sol- 
emnly at  ZARCA). 

Father,  your  child  is  ready !     She  will  not 

Forsake  her  kindred :  she  will  brave  all  scorn 

Sooner  than  scorn  herself.     Let  Spaniards  all, 

Christians,  Jews,  Moors,  shoot  out  the  lip  and  say, 

"  Lo,  the  first  hero  in  a  tribe  of  thieves." 

Is  it  not  written  so  of  them  ?     They,  too, 

Were  slaves,  lost,  wandering,  sunk  beneath  a  curse, 

Till  Moses,  Christ,  and  Mahomet  were  born, 

Till  beings  lonely  in  their  greatness  lived, 

And  lived*  to  save  their  people.     Father,  listen. 

To-morrow  the  Duke  weds  me  secretly : 

But  straight  he  will  present  me  as  his  wife 

To  all  his  household,  cavaliers  and  dames 

And  noble  pages.     Then  I  will  declare 

Before  them  all :  "  I  am  his  daughter,  his, 

The  Gypsy's,  owner  of  this  golden  badge." 

Then  I  shall  win  your  freedom ;  then  the  Duke  — 

Why,  he  will  be  your  son  !  —  will  send  you  forth 

With  aid  and  honours.     Then,  before  all  eyes 

I  '11  clasp  this  badge  on  you,  and  lift  my  brow 

For  you  to  kiss  it,  saying  by  that  sign, 

"  I  glory  in  my  father."     This,  to-morrow. 

ZARCA. 

A  woman's  dream,  —  who  thinks  by  smiling  well 
To  ripen  figs  in  frost.     What !  marry  first, 
And  then  proclaim  your  birth  ?     Enslave  yourself 
To  use  your  freedom  ?     Share  another's  name, 
Then  treat  it  as  you  will  ?     How  will  that  tune 
King    in    your    bridegroom's    ears,  —  that    sudden 

song 
Of  triumph  in  your  Gypsy  father  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  135 

FEDALMA  (discouraged). 

Nay, 

I  meant  not  so.     We  marry  hastily  — 
Yet  there  is  time  —  there  will  be :  —  in  less  spacp 
Than  he  can  take  to  look  at  me,  I  '11  speak 
And  tell  him  all.     Oh,  I  am  not  afraid ! 
His  love  for  me  is  stronger  than  all  hate ; 
Nay,  stronger  than  my  love,  which  cannot  sway 
Demons  that  haunt  me,  —  tempt  me  to  rebel. 
Were  he  Fedalma  and  I  Silva,  he 
Could  love  confession,  prayers,  and  tonsured  monks 
If  my  soul  craved  them.     He  will  never  hate 
The  race  that  bore  him  what  he  loves  the  most. 
I  shall  but  do  more  strongly  what  I  will, 
Having  his  will  to  help  me.     And  to-morrow, 
Father,  as  surely  as  this  heart  shall  beat, 
You,  every  chained  Zincalo,  shall  be  free. 

ZAKCA  (coming  nearer  to  her,  and  laying  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder). 

Too  late,  too  poor  a  service  that,  my  child  ! 

Not  so  the  woman  who  would  save  her  tribe 

Must  help  its  heroes,  —  not  by  wordy  breath, 

By  easy  prayers  strong  in  a  lover's  ear, 

By  showering  wreaths  and  sweets  and  wafted  kisses, 

And  then,  when  all  the  smiling  work  is  done, 

Turning  to  rest  upon  her  down  again, 

And  whisper  languid  pity  for  her  race 

Upon  the  bosom  of  her  alien  spouse. 

Not  to  such  petty  mercies  as  can  fall 

Twixt  stitch  and  stitch  of  silken  broidery  work. 

Such  miracles  of  mitred  saints  who  pause 

Beneath  their  gilded  canopy  to  heal 

A  man  sun-stricken :  not  to  such  trim  merit 


136  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

As  soils  its  dainty  shoes  for  charity 

And  simpers  meekly  at  the  pious  stain, 

But  never  trod  with  naked  bleeding  feet 

Where  no  man  praised  it,  and  where  no  Church 

blessed : 

Not  to  such  almsdeeds  fit  for  holidays 
Were  you,  my  daughter,  consecrated,  —  bound 
By  laws  that,  breaking,  you  will  dip  your  bread 
In  murdered  brother's  blood  and  call  it  sweet,  — 
When  you  were  born  in  the  Zincalo's  tent, 
And  lifted  up  in  sight  of  all  your  tribe, 
Who  greeted  you  with  shouts  of  loyal  joy, 
Sole  offspring  of  the  chief  in  whom  they  trust 
As  in  the  oft-tried  never-failing  flint 
They  strike  their  fire  from.     Other  work  is  yours. 

FEDALMA. 
What  work  ?  —  what  is  it  that  you  ask  of  me  ? 

ZABCA. 

A  work  as  pregnant  as  the  act  of  men 

Who  set  their  ships  aflame  and  spring  to  land, 

A  fatal  deed  .  .  . 

FEDALMA. 

Stay !  never  utter  it ! 
If  it  can  part  my  lot  from  his  whose  love 
Has  chosen  me.     Talk  not  of  oaths,  of  birth, 
Of  men  as  numerous  as  the  dim  white  stars, — 
As  cold  and  distant,  too,  for  my  heart's  pulse. 
No  ills  on  earth,  though  you  should  count  them  up 
With  grains  to  make  a  mountain,  can  outweigh 
For  me,  his  ill  who  is  my  supreme  love. 
All  sorrows  else  are  but  imagined  flames, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  137 

Making  me  shudder  at  an  unfelt  smart. 
But  his  imagined  sorrow  is  a  fire 
That  scorches  me. 

ZARCA. 

I  know,  I  know  it  well, — 
The  first  young  passionate  wail  of  spirits  called 
To  some  great  destiny.     In  vain,  my  daughter ! 
Lay  the  young  eagle  in  what  nest  you  will, 
The  cry  and  swoop  of  eagles  overhead 
Vibrate  prophetic  in  its  kindred  frame, 
And  make  it  spread  its  wings  and  poise  itself 
For  the  eagle's  flight.     Hear  what  you  have  to  do. 
(FEDALMA  breaks  from  him  and  stands  half 
averted,  as  if  she  dreaded  the  effect  of  his 
looks  and  words. ) 

My  comrades  even  now  file  off  their  chains 
In  a  low  turret  by  the  battlements, 
Where  we   were   locked   with   slight   and   sleepy- 
guard, — 

We  who  had  files  hid  in  our  shaggy  hair, 
And  possible  ropes  that  waited  but  our  will 
In  half  our  garments.      Oh,  the  Moorish  blood 
Runs  thick  and  warm  to  us,  though  thinned   by 

chrism. 

I  found  a  friend  among  our  jailers,  • — •  one 
Who  loves  the  Gypsy  as  the  Moor's  ally. 
I  know  the  secrets  of  this  fortress.   Listen. 
Hard  by  yon  terrace  is  a  narrow  stair, 
Cut  in  the  living  rock,  and  at  one  point 
In  its  slow  straggling  course  it  branches  off 
Towards  a  low  wooden  door,  that  art  has  bossed 
To  such  unevenness,  it  seems  one  piece 
With  the  rough-hewn  rock.     Opened,  it  leads 
Through  a  broad  passage  burrowed  underground 


138  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

A  good  half-mile  out  to  the  open  plain : 
Made  for  escape,  in  dire  extremity 
From  siege  or  burning,  of  the  house's  wealth 
In  women  or  in  gold.     To  find  that  door 
Needs  one  who  knows  the  number  of  the  steps 
Just  to  the  turning-point ;  to  open  it, 
Needs  one  who  knows  the  secret  of  the  bolt. 
You  have  that  secret :  you  will  ope  that  door, 
And  fly  with  us. 

FED  ALMA  (receding  a  little,  and  gathering  herself  up 
in  an  attitude  of  resolve  opposite  to  Zarca), 

No,  I  will  never  fly ! 
Never  forsake  that  chief  half  of  my  soul 
Where  lies  my  love.     I  swear  to  set  you  free. 
Ask  for  no  more  ;  it  is  not  possible. 
Father,  my  soul  is  not  too  base  to  ring 
At  touch  of  your  great  thoughts ;  nay,  in  my  blood 
There  streams  the  sense  unspeakable  of  kind, 
As  leopard  feels  at  ease  with  leopard.     But, — 
Look  at  these  hands !     You   say  when  they  were 

little 

They  played  about  the  gold  upon  your  neck. 
I  do  believe  it,  for  their  tiny  pulse 
Made  record  of  it  in  the  inmost  coil 
Of  growing  memory.     But  see  them  now ! 
Oh  they  have  made  fresh  record ;  twined  themselves 
With  other  throbbing  hands  whose  pulses  feed 
Not  memories  only  but  a  blended  life,  — 
Life  that  will  bleed  to  death  if  it  be  severed. 
Have  pity  on  me,  father !     Wait  the  morning ; 
Say  you  will  wait  the  morning.     I  will  win 
Your  freedom  openly  :  you  shall  go  forth 
With  aid  and  honours.     Silva  will  deny 
Naught  to  my  asking  .  .  , 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  139 

ZARCA  (with  contemptuous  decision). 

Till  you  ask  him  aught 

Wherein  he  is  powerless.      Soldiers  even  now 
Murmur  against  him  that  he  risks  the  town, 
And  forfeits  all  the  prizes  of  a  foray 
To  get  his  bridal  pleasure  with  a  bride 
Too  low  for  him.    They'll  murmur  more  and  louder 
If  captives  of  our  pith  and  sinew,  fit 
For  all  the  work  the  Spaniard  hates,  are  freed, — 
Now,  too,  when  Spanish  hands  are  scanty.    What, 
Turn  Gypsies  loose  instead  of  hanging  them ! 
'T  is  flat  against  the  edict.     Nay,  perchance 
Murmurs  aloud  may  turn  to  silent  threats 
Of  some  well-sharpened  dagger ;  for  your  Duke 
Has  to  his  heir  a  pious  cousin,  who  deems 
The  Cross  were  better  served  if  he  were  Duke. 
Such  good  you'll  work  your  lover  by  your  prayers. 

FEDALMA. 

Then,  I  will  free  you  now!     You  shall  be  safe, 
Nor  he  be  blamed,  save  for  his  love  to  me. 
I  will  declare  what  I  have  done  :  the  deed 
May  put  our  marriage  off.   ... 

ZARCA. 

Ay,  till  the  time 

When  you  shall  be  a  queen  in  Africa, 
And  he  be  prince  enough  to  sue  for  you. 
You  cannot  free  us  and  come  back  to  him. 

FEDALMA. 
And  why  ? 

ZARCA. 
I  would  compel  you  to  go  forth. 


HO  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FEDALMA. 
You  tell  me  that  ? 

ZARCA. 

Yes,  for  I  'd  have  you  choose ; 
Though,  being  of  the  blood  you  are, —  my  blood,— 
You  have  no  right  to  choose. 

FEDALMA. 

I  only  owe 
A  daughter's  debt;  I  was  not  born  a  slave. 

ZARCA, 

No,  not  a  slave ;  but  you  were  born  to  reign. 
'T  is  a  compulsion  of  a  higher  sort, 
Whose  fetters  are  the  net  invisible 
That  holds  all  life  together.      Royal  deeds 
May  make  long  destinies  for  multitudes, 
And  you  are  called  to  do  them.     You  belong 
Not  to  the  petty  round  of  circumstance 
That  makes  a  woman's  lot,  but  to  your  tribe, 
Who  trust  in  me  and  in  my  blood  with  trust 
That  men  call  blind ;  but  it  is  only  blind 
As  unyeaned  reason  is,  that  growing  stirs 
Within  the  womb  of  superstition. 

FEDALMA. 

No! 

I  belong  to  him  who  loves  me  —  whom  I  love  — 
Who   chose    me  —  whom    I    chose  —  to   whom   I 

pledged 

A  woman's  truth.     And  that  is  nature  too, 
Issuing  a  fresher  law  than  laws  .of  birth. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  141 

ZARCA. 

Well,  then,  unmake  yourself  from  a  Zincala, — 
Unmake  yourself  from  being  child  of  mine ! 
Take  holy  water,  cross  your  dark  skin  white ; 
Eound  your  proud  eyes  to  foolish  kitten  looks ; 
Walk  mincingly,  and  smirk,  and  twitch  your  robe  • 
Unmake  yourself,  — doff  all  the  eagle  plumes 
And  be  a  parrot,  chained  to  a  ring  that  slips 
Upon  a  Spaniard's  thumb,  at  will  of  his 
That  you  should  prattle  o'er  his  words  again ! 
Get  a  small  heart  that  flutters  at  the  smiles 
Of  that  plump  penitent  and  greedy  saint 
Who  breaks  all  treaties  in  the  name  of  God, 
Saves  souls  by  confiscation,  sends  to  heaven 
The  altar-fumes  of  burning  heretics, 
And  chaffers  with  the  Levite  for  the  gold ; 
Holds  Gypsies  beasts  unfit  for  sacrifice, 
So  sweeps  them  out  like  worms  alive  or  dead. 
Go,  trail  your  gold  and  velvet  in  her  presence !  — 
Conscious  Zincala,  smile  at  your  rare  luck, 
While  half  your  brethren  .  .   . 

FEDALMA. 

I  am  not  so  vile ! 

It  is  not  to  such  mockeries  that  I  cling, 
Not  to  the  flaring  tow  of  gala-lights : 
It  is  to  him  —  my  love  —  the  face  of  day. 

ZARCA. 

What,  will  you  part  him  from  the  air  he  breathes,1 
Never  inhale  with  him  although  you  kiss  him  ? 
Will  you  adopt  a  soul  without  its  thoughts, 
Or  grasp  a  life  apart  from  flesh  and  blood  ? 
Till  then  you  cannot  wed  a  Spanish  Duke 


142  POEMS  OF    GEOKGE  ELIOT. 

And  not  wed  shame  at  mention  of  your  race, 
And  not  wed  hardness  to  their  miseries, — 
Nay,  not  wed  murder.     Would  you  save  my  life 
Yet  stab  my  purpose  ?  maim  my  every  limb, 
Put  out  my  eyes,  and  turn  me  loose  to  feed  ? 
Is  that  salvation  ?  rather  drink  my  blood. 
That  child  of  mine  who  weds  my  enemy, — 
Adores  a  God  who  took  no  heed  of  Gypsies, — 
Forsakes  her  people,  leaves  their  poverty 
To    join    the    luckier    crowd    that    mocks    their 

woes, — 

That  child  of  mine  is  doubly  murderess, 
Murdering  her  father's  hope,  her  people's  trust. 
Such  draughts  are  mingled  in  your  cup  of  love. 
And  when  you  have  become  a  thing  so  poor, 
Your  life  is  all  a  fashion  without  law 
Save  frail  conjecture  of  a  changing  wish, 
Your  worshipped  sun,  your  smiling  face  of  day, 
Will  turn  to  cloudiness,  and  you  will  shiver 
In  your  thin  finery  of  vain  desire. 
Men  call  his  passion  madness ;  and  he,  too, 
May  learn  to  think  it  madness  :  't  is  a  thought 
Of  ducal  sanity. 

FEDALMA. 

No,  he  is  true ! 

And  if  I  part  from  him  I  part  from  joy. 
Oh,  it  was  morning  with  us, — I  seemed  young. 
But  now  I  know  I  am  an  aged  sorrow, — 
My  people's  sorrow.     Father,  since  I  am  yours, — 
Since  I  must  walk  an  unslain  sacrifice, 
Carrying  the  knife  within  me,  quivering, — 
Put  cords  upon  me,  drag  me  to  the  doom 
My  birth  has  laid  upon  me.     See,  I  kneel : 
I  cannot  will  to  go. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  143 

ZARCA. 

Will  then  to  stay ! 

Say  you  will  take  your  better,  painted  such 
By  blind  desire,  and  choose  the  hideous  worse 
For  thousands  who  were  happier  but  for  you. 
My  thirty  followers  are  assembled  now 
Without  this  terrace  :  I  your  father  wait 
That  you  may  lead  us  forth  to  liberty, — 
Restore  me  to  my  tribe, — five  hundred  men 
Whom  I  alone  can  save,  alone  can  rule, 
And  plant  them  as  a  mighty  nation's  seed. 
Why,  vagabonds  who  clustered  round  one  man, 
Their  voice    of    God,    their    prophet,    and    their 

king, 

Twice  grew  to  empire  on  the  teeming  shores 
Of  Africa,  and  sent  new  royalties 
To  feed  afresh  the  Arab  sway  in  Spain. 
My  vagabonds  are  a  seed  more  generous, 
Quick  as  the  serpent,  loving  as  the  hound, 
And  beautiful  as  disinherited  gods. 
They  have  a  promised  land  beyond  the  sea: 
There  I  may  lead  them,  raise  my  standard,  call 
All  wandering  Zincali  to  that  home, 
And  make  a  nation, —  bring  light,  order,  law, 
Instead  of  chaos.     You,  my  only  heir, 
Are  called  to  reign  for  me  when  I  am  gone. 
Now  choose  your  deed :  to  save  or  to  destroy. 
You,  woman  and  Zincala,  fortunate 
Above  your  fellows, —  you  who  hold  a  curse 
Or  blessing  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand, — 
Say  you  will  loose  that  hand  from  fellowship, 
Let  go  the  rescuing  rope,  hurl  all  the  tribes. 
Children  and  countless  beings  yet  to  come, 
Down  from  the  upward  path  of  light  and  joy, 


144  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Back  to  the  dark  and  marshy  wilderness 

Where  life  is  naught  but  blind  tenacity 

Of  that  which  is.     Say  you  will  curse  your  race ! 

FEDALMA  (rising  and  stretching  out  her  arms  in 
deprecation). 

No,  no, —  I  will  not  say  it, —  I  will  go! 
Father,  I  choose !     I  will  not  take  a  heaven 
Haunted  by  shrieks  of  far-off  misery. 
This  deed  and  I  have  ripened  with  the  hours : 
It  is  a  part  of  me, —  awakened  thought 
That,  rising  like  a  giant,  masters  me, 
And  grows  into  a  doom.     0  mother  life, 
That  seemed  to  nourish  me  so  tenderly, 
Even  in  the  womb  you  vowed  rne  to  the  fire, 
Hung  on  my  soul  the  burden  of  men's  hopes, 
And  pledged  me  to  redeem !  —  I'll  pay  the  debt. 
You  gave  me  strength  that  I  should  pour  it  all 
Into  this  anguish.     I  can  never  shrink 
Back  into  bliss, —  my  heart  has  grown  too  big 
With  things  that  might  be.     Father,  I  will  go. 
I  will  strip  off  these  gems.     Some  happier  bride 
Shall  wear  them,  since  Fedalma  would  be  dowered 
With  naught  but  curses,  dowered  with  misery 
Of  men, —  of  women,  who  have  hearts  to  bleed 
As  hers  is  bleeding. 

(She  sinks  on  a  seat,  and  begins  to  take  off  her 
jewels.) 

Now,  good  gems,  we  part. 
Speak  of  me  always  tenderly  to  Silva. 

(She  pauses,  turning  to  ZAECA.  ) 
0  father,  will  the  women  of  our  tribe 
Suffer  as  I  do,  in  the  years  to  come 
When  you  have  made  them  great  in  Africa  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  US 

Redeemed  from  ignorant  ills  only  to  feel 

A  conscious  woe  ?    Then, —  is  it  worth  the  pains  ? 

Were  it  not  better  when  we  reach  that  shore 

To  raise  a  funeral-pile  and  perish  all  ? 

So  closing  up  a  myriad  avenues 

To  misery  yet  unwrought?     My  soul  is  faint, — 

Will  these  sharp  pangs  buy  any  certain  good  ? 

ZARCA. 

Nay,  never  falter :  no  great  deed  is  done 

By  falterers  who  ask  for  certainty. 

No  good  is  certain,  but  the  steadfast  mind, 

The  undivided  will  to  seek  the  good : 

'T  is  that  compels  the  elements,  and  wrings 

A  human  music  from  the  indifferent  air. 

The  greatest  gift  the  hero  leaves  his  race 

Is  to  have  been  a  hero.      Say  we  fail !  — 

We  feed  the  high  tradition  of  the  world, 

And  leave  our  spirit  in  Zincalo  breasts. 

FEDALMA  (unclasping  her  jewelled  belt,  and  throwing 
it  down), 

Yes,  say  that  we  shall  fail !     I  will  not  count 
On  aught  but  being  faithful.     I  will  take 
This  yearning  self  of  mine  and  strangle  it. 
I  will  not  be  half-hearted :  never  yet 
Fedalma  did  aught  with  a  wavering  soul. 
Die,  my  young  joy, —  die,  all  my  hungry  hopes, — 
The  milk  you  cry  for  from  the  breast  of  life 
Is  thick  with  curses.     Oh,  all  fatness  here 
Snatches  its  meat  from  leanness, — feeds  on  graves. 
I  will  seek  nothing  but  to  shun  what  's  base. 
The  saints  were  cowards  who  stood  by  to  see 
Christ  crucified :  they  should  have  flung  themselves 
Upon  the  Eoman  spears,  and  died  in  vain, — 

VOL.   J,  —  JO 


146  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  grandest  death,  to  die  in  vain,  —  for  lovo 
Greater  than  sways  the  forces  of  the  world. 
That  death  shall  be  my  bridegroom.     I  will  wed 
The  curse  of  the  Zincali.     Father,  come ! 

ZARCA. 

No  curse  has  fallen  on  us  till  we  cease 
To  help  each  other.     You,  if  you  are  false 
To  that  first  fellowship,  lay  on  the  curse. 
But  write  now  to  the  Spaniard  :  briefly  say 
That  I,  your  father,  came ;  that  you  obeyed 
The  fate  which  made  you  a  Zincala,  as  his  fate 
Made  him  a  Spanish  duke  and  Christian  knight. 
He  must  not  think  .   .   . 

FED  ALMA. 

Yes,  I  will  write,  but  he, 

Oh,  he  would  know  it,  —  he  would  never  think 
The  chain   that   dragged   me  from    him  could   be 

aught 
But  scorching  iron  entering  in  my  soul. 

(She  writes.) 

Silva,  sole  love,  —  he  came,  —  my  father  came. 
1  am  the  daughter  of  the  Gypsy  chief 
Who  means  to  be  the  Saviour  of  our  tribe. 
He  calls  on  me  to  live  for  his  great  end. 
To  live?  nay,  die  for  it.     Fedalma  dies 
In  leaving  Silva :  all  that  lives  henceforth 
Is  the  Zincala.  (She  rises.) 

Father,  now  I  go 
To  wed  my  people's  lot. 

ZAPCA. 

To  wed  a  crown. 
We  will  make  royal  the  Zincali '§  lot, — 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  147 

Give  it  a  country,  homes,  and  monuments 

Held  sacred  through  the  lofty  memories 

That  we  shall  leave  behind  us.     Come,  my  Queen ! 

FED  ALMA. 

Stay,  my  betrothal  ring !  —  one  kiss,  —  farewell ! 
O  love,  you  were  my  crown.      No  other  crown 
Is  aught  but  thorns  on  my  poor  woman's  brow. 

(Exeunt.) 


BOOK  II. 

SILVA  was  marching  homeward  while  the  moon 
Still  shed  mild  brightness  like  the  far-off  hope 
Of  those  pale  virgin  lives  that  wait  and  pray. 
The  stars  thin-scattered  made  the  heavens  large, 
Bending  in  slow  procession ;  in  the  east 
Emergent  from  the  dark  waves  of  the  hills, 
Seeming  a  little  sister  of  the  moon, 
Glowed  Venus  all  unquenched.     Silva,  in  haste, 
Exultant  and  yet  anxious,  urged  his  troop 
To  quick  and  quicker  march  :  he  had  delight 
In  forward  stretching  shadows,  in  the  gleams 
That  travelled  on  the  armour  of  the  van, 
And  in  the  many-hoofed  sound :  in  all  that  told 
Of  hurrying  movement  to  o'ertake  his  thought 
Already  in  Bedmar,  close  to  Fedalma, 
Leading  her  forth  a  wedded  bride,  fast  vowed, 
Defying  Father  Isidor.      His  glance 
Took  in  with  much  content  the  priest  who  rode 
Firm  in  his  saddle,  stalwart  and  broad-backed, 
Crisp-curled,  and  comfortably  secular, 
Eight  in  the  front  of  him.     But  by  degrees 
Stealthily  faint,  disturbing  with  slow  loss 
That  showed  not  yet  full  promise  of  a  gain, 
The  light  was  changing  and  the  watch  intense 
Of  moon  and  stars  seemed  weary,  shivering : 
The  sharp  white  brightness  passed  from  off  the  rocks 
Carrying  the  shadows :  beauteous  Night  lay  dead 
Under  the  pall  of  twilight,  and  the  love-star 
Sickened  and  shrank.    The  troop  was  winding  now 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  149 

Upward  to  where  a  pass  between  the  peaks 
Seemed  like  an  opened  gate,  —  to  Silva  seemed 
An  outer-gate  of  heaven,  for  through  that  pass 
They  entered  his  own  valley,  near  Bedmar. 
Sudden  within  the  pass  a  horseman  rose 
One  instant  dark  upon  the  banner  Dale 
Of  rock-cut  sky,  the  next  in  motion  swift 
With  hat  and  plume  high  shaken,  —  ominous. 
Silva  had  dreamed  his  future,  and  the  dream 
Held  not  this  messenger.     A  minute  more, — • 
It  was  his  friend  Don  Alvar  whom  he  saw 
Reining  his  horse  up,  face  to  face  with  him, 
Sad  as  the  twilight,  all  his  clothes  ill-girt, — 
As  if  he  had  been  roused  to  see  one  die, 
And  brought  the  news  to  him  whom  death   had 

robbed. 

Silva  believed  he  saw  the  worst,  —  the  town 
Stormed  by  the  infidel, —  or,  could  it  be 
Fedalma  dragged  ?  —  no,  there  was  not  yet  time. 
But  with  a  marble  face,  he  only  said, 
"  What  evil,  Alvar  ? " 

"  What  this  paper  speaks.  " 
It  was  Fedalma 's  letter  folded  close 
And  mute  as  yet  for  Silva.     But  his  friend 
Keeping  it  still  sharp-pinched  against  his  breast, 
"  It  will  smite  hard,  my  lord  :  a  private  grief. 
I  would  not  have  you  pause  to  read  it  here. 
Let  us  ride  on,  —  we  use  the  moments  best, 
Beaching  the  town  with  speed.     The  smaller  ill 
Is  that  our  Gypsy  prisoners  have  escaped. " 
"  No  more.     Give  me  the  paper, —  nay,  I  know, — 
'T  will  make  no  difference.     Bid  them  march  on 

faster. " 

Silva  pushed  forward,  —  held  the  paper  crushed 
Close  in  his  right.     "  They  have  imprisoned  her, 


150  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

He  said  to  Alvar  in  low,  hard-cut  tones, 

Like  a  dream-speech  of  slumbering  revenge. 

"  No, —  when  they  came  to  fetch  her,  she  was  gone." 

Swift  as  the  right  touch  on  a  spring,  that  word 

Made  Silva  read  the  letter.      She  was  gone ! 

But  not  into  locked  darkness, —  only  gone 

Into  free  air,  —  where  he  might  find  her  yet. 

The  bitter  loss  had  triumph  in  it, —  what! 

They  would  have  seized  her  with  their  holy  claws  ? 

The  Prior's  sweet  morsel  of  despotic  hate 

Was  snatched  from  off  his  lips.      This  misery 

Had  yet  a  taste  of  joy. 

But  she  was  gone ! 

The  sun  had  risen,  and  in  the  castle  walls 
The  light  grew  strong  and  stronger.      Silva  walked 
Through  the  long  corridor  where  dimness  yet 
Cherished  a  lingering,  flickering,  dying  hope  : 
Fedalma  still  was  there,  —  he  could  not  see 
The  vacant  place  that  once  her  presence  filled. 
Can  we  believe  that  the  dear  dead  are  gone  ? 
Love  in  sad  weeds  forgets  the  funeral  day, 
Opens  the  chamber  door  and  almost  smiles, — 
Then  sees  the  sunbeams  pierce  athwart  the  bed 
Where  the  pale  face  is  not.     So  Silva 's  joy, 
Like  the  sweet  habit  of  caressing  hands 
That  seek  the  memory  of  another  hand, 
Still  lived  on  fitfully  in  spite  of  words, 
And,  numbing  thought  with  vague  illusion,  dulled 
The  slow  and  steadfast  beat  of  certainty. 
But  in  the  rooms  inexorable  light 
Streamed  through  the  open  window  where  she  fled, 
Streamed  on  the  belt  and  coronet  thrown  down, — 
Mute  witnesses,  —  sought  out  the  typic  ring 
That  sparkled  on  the  crimson,  solitary, 
Wounding  him  like  a  word.     0  hateful  light! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  151 

It  filled  the  chambers  with  her  absence,  glared 
On  all  the  motionless  things  her  hand  had  touched, 
Motionless  all, —  save  where  old  Inez  lay 
Sunk  on  the  floor  holding  her  rosary, 
Making  its  shadow  tremble  with  her  fear. 
And  Silva  passed  her  by  because  she  grieved : 
It  was  the  lute,  the  gems,  the  pictured  heads, 
He  longed  to  crush,  because  they  made  no  sign 
But  of  insistence  that  she  was  not  there, 
She  who  had  filled  his  sight  and  hidden  them. 
He  went  forth  on  the  terrace  tow'rd  the  stairs, 
Saw  the  rained  petals  of  the  cistus  flowers 
Crushed  by  large  feet ;  but  on  one  shady  spot 
Far  down  the  steps,  where  dampness  made  a  home, 
He  saw  a  footprint  delicate-slippered,  small, 
So  dear  to  him,  he  searched  for  sister-prints, 
Searched  in  the  rock-hewn  passage  with  a  lamp 
For  other  trace  of  her,  and  found  a  glove  ; 
But  not  Fedalma's.      It  was  Juan's  glove, 
Tasselled,  perfumed,  embroidered  with  his  name, 
A  gift  of  dames.     Then  Juan,  too,  was  gone  ? 
Full-mouthed    conjecture,    hurrying   through   the 

town, 

Had  spread  the  tale  already,  —  it  was  he 
That  helped  the  Gypsies'  flight.     He  talked  and 

sang 

Of  nothing  but  the  Gypsies  and  Fedalma. 
He  drew  the  threads  together,  wove  the  plan. 
Had  lingered  out  by  moonlight  and  been  seen 
Strolling,  as  was  his  wont,  within  the  walls, 
Humming  his  ditties.     So  Don  Alvar  told, 
Conveying  outside  rumour.     But  the  Duke 
Keeping  his  haughtiness  as  a  visor  closed 
Would  show  no  agitated  front  in  quest 
Of  small  disclosures.     What  her  writing  bore 


1 52  POEMS  OF   GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Had  been  enough.     He  knew  that  she  was  gone, 
Knew  why. 

"  The  Duke, "  some  said,  "  will  send  a  force, 
Eetake  the  prisoners,  and  bring  back  his  bride. " 
But  others,  winking,  "  Nay,  her  wedding  dress 
Would  be  the  san-benito.      'T  is  a  fight 
Between  the  Duke  and  Prior.    Wise  bets  will  choose 
The  churchman  :  he  's  the  iron,  and  the  Duke"  — 
"  Is  a  fine  piece  of  pottery, "  said  mine  host, 
Softening  the  epigram  with  a  bland  regret. 

There  was  the  thread  that  in  the  new-made  knot 
Of  obstinate  circumstance  seemed  hardest  drawn, 
Vexed  most  the  sense  of  Silva,  in  these  hours 
Of  fresh  and  angry  pain,  —  there,  in  that  fight 
Against  a  foe  whose  sword  was  magical, 
His  shield  invisible  terrors,  —  against  a  foe 
Who  stood  as  if  upon  the  smoking  mount 
Ordaining  plagues.     All  else,  Fedalma's  flight, 
The  father's  claim,  her  Gypsy  birth  disclosed, 
Were  momentary  crosses,  hindrances 
A  Spanish  noble  might  despise.     This  Chief 
Might  still  be  treated  with,  would  not  refuse 
A  proffered  ransom,  which  would  better  serve 
Gypsy  prosperity,  give  him  more  power 
Over  his  tribe,  than  any  fatherhood : 
Nay,  all  the  father  in  him  must  plead  loud 
For  marriage  of  his  daughter  where  she  loved, — 
Her  love  being  placed  so  high  and  lustrously. 
The  keen  Zincalo  had  foreseen  a  price 
That  would  be  paid  him  for  his  daughter's  dower, — 
Might  soon  give  signs.      Oh,  all  his  purpose  lay 
Face  upward.     Silva  here  felt  strong,  and  smiled. 
What  could  a  Spanish  noble  not  command  ? 
He  only  helped  the  Queen,  because  he  chose,  — 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.       .  153 

Could  war  on  Spaniards,  and  could  spare  the  Moor, — 

Buy  justice,  or  defeat  it, —  if  he  would  : 

Was  loyal,  not  from  weakness  but  from  strength 

Of  high  resolve  to  use  his  birthright  well. 

For  nobles  too  are  gods,  like  Emperors, 

Accept  perforce  their  own  divinity 

And  wonder  at  the  virtue  of  their  touch, 

Till  obstinate  resistance  shakes  their  creed, 

Shattering  that  self  whose  wholeness  is  not  rounded 

Save  in  the  plastic  souls  of  other  men. 

Don  Silva  had  been  suckled  in  that  creed 

(A  speculative  noble  else,  knowing  Italian), 

Held  it  absurd  as  foolish  argument 

If  any  failed  in  deference,  was  too  proud 

Not  to  be  courteous  to  so  poor  a  knave 

As  one  who  knew  not  necessary  truths 

Of  birth  and  precedence ;  but  cross  his  will, 

The  miracle-working  will,  his  rage  leaped  out 

As  by  a  right  divine  to  rage  more  fatal 

Than  a  mere  mortal  man's.     And  now  that  will 

Had  met  a  stronger  adversary, —  strong 

As  awful  ghosts  are  whom  we  cannot  touch, 

While  they  grasp  us,  subtly  as  poisoned  air, 

In  deep-laid  fibres  of  inherited  fear 

That  lie  below  all  courage. 

Silva  said, 

"  She  is  not  lost  to  me,  might  still  be  mine 
But  for  the  Inquisition, —  the  dire  hand 
That  waits  to  clutch  her  with  a  hideous  grasp, 
Not  passionate,  human,  living,  but  a  grasp 
As  in  the  death-throe  when  the  human  soul 
Departs  and  leaves  force  unrelenting,  locked, 
Not  to  be  loosened  save  by  slow  decay 
That  frets  the  universe.     Father  Isidor 
Has  willed  it  so :  his  phial  dropped  the  oil 


154  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

To  catch  the  air-borne  motes  of  idle  slander; 

He  fed  the  fascinated  gaze  that  clung 

Round  all  her  movements,  frank  as  growths 

With  the  new  hateful  interest  of  suspicion. 

What  barrier  is  this  Gypsy  ?  a  mere  gate 

I  '11  find  the  key  for.     The  one  barrier, 

The  tightening  cord  that  winds  about  my  limbs, 

Is  this  kind  uncle,  this  imperious  saint, 

He  who  will  save  me,  guard  me  from  myself. 

And  he  can  work  his  will :  I  have  no  help 

Save  reptile  secrecy,  and  no  revenge 

Save  that  I  will  do  what  he  schemes  to  hinder. 

Ay,  secrecy,  and  disobedience,  —  these 

No  tyranny  can  master.     Disobey  ! 

You  may  divide  the  universe  with  God, 

Keeping  your  will  unbent,  and  hold  a  world 

Where  he  is  not  supreme.     The  Prior  shall  know  it ! 

His  will  shall  breed  resistance :  he  shall  do 

The  thing  he  would  not,  further  what  he  hates 

By  hardening  my  resolve." 

But  'neath  this  inward  speech,  — 
Predominant,  hectoring,  the  more  passionate  voice 
Of  many-blended  consciousness,  —  there  breathed 
Murmurs  of  doubt,  the  weakness  of  a  self 
That  is  not  one ;  denies  and  yet  believes ; 
Protests  with  passion,  "  This  is  natural,"  — 
Yet  owns  the  other  still  were  truer,  better, 
Could  nature  follow  it.     A  self  disturbed 
By  budding  growths  of  reason  premature 
That  breed  disease.     Spite  of  defiant  rage 
Silva  half  shrank  before  the  steadfast  man 
Whose  life  was  one  compacted  whole,  a  state 
Where  the  rule  changed  not,  and  the  law  was  strong. 
Then  straightway  he  resented  that  forced  tribute, 
Rousing  rebellion  with  intenser  will. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  155 

But  soon  this  inward  strife  the  slow-paced  hours 

Slackened ;  and  the  soul  sank  with  hunger-pangs, 

Hunger  of  love.     Debate  was  swept  right  down 

By  certainty  of  loss  intolerable. 

A  little  loss  !  only  a  dark-tressed  maid 

Who  had  no  heritage  save  her  beauteous  being! 

But  in  the  candour  of  her  virgin  eyes 

Saying,  I  love ;  and  in  the  mystic  charm 

Of  her  dear  presence,  Silva  found  a  heaven 

Where  faith  and  hope  were  drowned  as  stars  in  day. 

Fedalma  there,  each  momentary  Now 

Seemed  a  whole  blest  existence,  a  full  cup 

That,  flowing  over,  asked  no  pouring  hand 

From  past  to  future.     All  the  world  was  hers. 

Splendour  was  but  the  herald  trumpet  note 

Of  her  imperial  coming :  penury 

Vanished  before  her  as  before  a  gem 

The  pledge  of  treasuries.     Fedalma  there, 

He  thought  all  loveliness  was  lovelier, 

She  crowning  it :  all  goodness  credible, 

Because  of  the  great  trust  her  goodness  bred. 

For  the  strong  current  of  that  passionate  love 

Which  urged  his  life  tow'rds  hers,  like  urgent  floods 

That  hurry  through  the  various-mingled  earth, 

Carried  within  its  stream  all  qualities 

Of  what  it  penetrated,  and  made  love 

Only  another  name,  as  Silva  was, 

For  the  whole  man  that  breathed  within  his  frame, 

And  she  was  gone.     Well,  goddesses  will  go ; 

But  for  a  noble  there  were  mortals  left 

Shaped  just  like  goddesses,  —  0  hateful  sweet ! 

O  impudent  pleasure  that  should  dare  to  front 

With  vulgar  visage  memories  divine ! 

The  noble's  birthright  of  miraculous  will 

Turning  /  would  to  must  be,  spurning  all 


156  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Offered  as  substitute  for  what  it  chose, 

Tightened  and  fixed  in  strain  irrevocable 

The  passionate  selection  of  that  love 

Which  came  not  first  but  as  all-conquering  last. 

Great  Love  has  many  attributes,  and  shrines 

For  varied  worshippers,  but  his  force  divine 

Shows  most  its  many-named  fulness  in  the  man 

Whose  nature  multitudinously  mixed, 

Each  ardent  impulse  grappling  with  a  thought 

Eesists  all  easy  gladness,  all  content 

Save  mystic  rapture,  where  the  questioning  soul 

Flooded  with  consciousness  of  good  that  is 

Finds  life  one  bounteous  answer.     So  it  was 

In  Silva's  nature,  Love  had  mastery  there, 

Not  as  a  holiday  ruler,  but  as  one 

Who  quells  a  tumult  in  a  day  of  dread, 

A  welcomed  despot. 

Oh,  all  comforters, 

All  soothing  things  that  bring  mild  ecstasy, 
Came  with  her  coming,  in  her  presence  lived. 
Spring  afternoons,  when  delicate  shadows  fall 
Pencilled  upon  the  grass ;  high  summer  morns 
When  white  light  rains  upon  the  quiet  sea 
And  corn-fields  flush  with  ripeness ;  odours  soft,  — 
Dumb  vagrant  bliss  that  seems  to  seek  a  home 
And  find  it  deep  within  'mid  stirrings  vague 
Of  far-off  moments  when  our  life  was  fresh ; 
All  sweetly-tempered  music,  gentle  change 
Of  sound,  form,  colour,  as  on  wide  lagoons 
At  sunset  when  from  black  far-floating  prows 
Comes  a  clear  wafted  song ;  all  exquisite  joy 
Of  a  subdued  desire,  like  some  strong  stream 
Made  placid  in  the  fulness  of  a  lake,  — 
All  came  with  her  sweet  presence,  for  she  brought 
The  love  supreme  which  gathers  to  its  realm 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  157 

All  powers  of  loving.     Subtle  nature's  hand 
Waked  with  a  touch  the  intricate  harmonies 
In  her  own  manifold  work.     Fedalma  there, 
Fastidiousness  became  the  prelude  fine 
For  full-contentment,  and  young  melancholy, 
Lost  for  its  origin,  seemed  but  the  pain 
Of  waiting  for  that  perfect  happiness  — 
The  happiness  was  gone ! 

He  sat  alone, 

Hating  companionship  that  was  not  hers ; 
Felt    bruised  with    hopeless    longing;    drank,    as 

wine, 

Illusions  of  what  had  been,  would  have  been ; 
Weary  with  anger  and  a  strained  resolve, 
Sought  passive  happiness  in  a  waking  dream, 
It  has  been  so  with  rulers,  emperors, 
Nay,  sages  who  held  secrets  of  great  Time, 
Sharing  his  hoary  and  beneficent  life,  — 
Men  who  sat  throned  among  the  multitudes,  — 
They  have  sore  sickened  at  the  loss  of  one. 
Silva  sat  lonely  in  her  chamber,  leaned 
Where  she  had  leaned,  to  feel  the  evening  breath 
Shed  from  the  orange-trees ;  when  suddenly 
His  grief  was  echoed  in  a  sad  young  voice 
Far  and  yet  near,  brought  by  aerial  wings. 

The  world  is  great :  the  birds  all  fly  from  me, 
The  stars  are  golden  fruit  upon  a  tree 
All  out  of  reach :  my  little  sister  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great :  I  tried  to  mount  the  hill 
Above  the  pines,  where  the  light  lies  so  still, 
But  it  rose  higher :  little  Lisa  went, 

And  I  am  lonely. 


158  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  world  is  great :  the  wind  comes  rushing 
I  wonder  where  it  comes  from  ;  sea-birds  cry 
And  hurt  my  heart :  my  little  sister  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 


The  world  is  great :  the  people  laugh  and  talk, 
And  make  loud  holiday :  how  fast  they  walk  I 
I  'm  lame,  they  push  me  :  little  Lisa  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 

'T  was  Pablo,  like  the  wounded  spirit  of  song 
Pouring  melodious  pain  to  cheat  the  hour 
For  idle  soldiers  in  the  castle  court. 
Dreamily  Silva  heard  and  hardly  felt 
The  song  was  outward,  rather  felt  it  part 
Of  his  own  aching,  like  the  lingering  day, 
Or  slow  and  mournful  cadence  of  the  bell. 
But  when  the  voice  had  ceased,  he  longed  for  it, 
And  fretted  at  the  pause,  as  memory  frets 
When  words  that  made  its  body  fall  away 
And  leave  it  yearning  dumbly.     Silva  then 
Bethought  him  whence  the  voice  came,  framed  per- 
force 

Some  outward  image  of  a  life  not  his 
That  made  a  sorrowful  centre  to  the  world,  — 
A  boy  lame,  melancholy-eyed,  who  bore 
A  viol,  —  yes,  that  very  child  he  saw 
This    morning    eating    roots    by   the    gateway, — 

saw 

As  one  fresh-ruined  sees  and  spells  a  name 
And  knows  not  what  he  does,  yet  finds  it  writ 
Full  in  the  inner  record.     Hark,  again  ! 
The  voice  and  viol.     Silva  called  his  thought 
To  guide  his  ear  and  track  the  travelling  sound. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  159 

0  bird  that  used  to  press 
Thy  head  against  my  cheek 
With  touch  that  seemed  to  speak 

And  ask  a  tender  " yes"  — 

Ay  de  mi,  my  bird  ! 

0  tender  downy  'breast 

And  warmly  beating  heart, 

That  beating  seemed  a  part 
Of  me  who  gave  it  rest,  — 

Ay  de  mi,  my  bird  ! 

The  western  court !     The  singer  might  be  seen 
From  the  upper  gallery :  quick  the  Duke  was  there 
Looking  upon  the  court  as  on  a  stage. 
Men  eased  of  armour,  stretched  upon  the  ground, 
Gambling  by  snatches ;  shepherds  from  the  hills 
Who  brought  their  bleating  friends  for  slaughter; 

grooms 

Shouldering  loose  harness  ;  leather-aproned  smiths, 
Traders  with  wares,  green-suited  serving-men, 
Made  a  round  audience ;  and  in  their  midst 
Stood  little  Pablo,  pouring  forth  his  song, 
Just  as  the  Duke  had  pictured.     But  the  song 
Was  strangely  companied  by  Eoldan's  play 
With  the  swift-gleaming  balls,  and  now  was  crushed 
By  peals  of  laughter  at  grave  Annibal, 
Who  carrying  stick  and  purse  o'erturned  the  pence, 
Making  mistake  by  rule.     Silva  had  thought 
To  melt  hard  bitter  grief  by  fellowship 
With  the  world-sorrow  trembling  in  his  ear 
In  Pablo's  voice ;  '"had  meant  to  give  command 
For  the  boy's  presence ;  but  this  company, 
This  mountebank  and  monkey,  must  be  —  stay ! 
Not  be  excepted  —  must  be  ordered  too 


160  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Into  his  private  presence ;  they  had  brought 

Suggestion  of  a  ready  shapen  tool 

To  cut  a  path  between  his  helpless  wish 

And  what  it  imaged.     A  ready  shapen  tool ! 

A  spy,  an  envoy  whom  he  might  despatch 

In  unsuspected  secrecy,  to  find 

The  Gypsies'  refuge  so  that  none  beside 

Might  learn  it     And  this  juggler  could  be  bribed, 

Would  have  no  fear  of  Moors,  —  for  who  would  kill 

Dancers  and  monkeys  ?  —  could  pretend  a  journey 

Back  to  his  home,  leaving  his  boy  the  while 

To   please   the   Duke   with   song.      Without   such 

chance,  — 

An  envoy  cheap  and  secret  as  a  mole 
Who  could  go  scathless,  come  back  for  his  pay 
And  vanish  straight,  tied  by  no  neighbourhood, — 
Without  such  chance  as  this  poor  juggler  brought, 
Finding  Fedalma  was  betraying  her. 

Short  interval  betwixt  the  thought  and  deed. 

Koldan  was  called  to  private  audience 

With  Annibal  and  Pablo.     All  the  world 

(By  which  I  mean  the  score  or  two  who  heard) 

Shrugged  high  their  shoulders,  and  supposed  the 

Duke 

Would  fain  beguile  the  evening  and  replace 
His  lacking  happiness,  as  was  the  right 
Of  nobles,  who  could  pay  for  any  cure, 
And  wore  naught  broken,  save  a  broken  limb. 
In  truth,  at  first,  the  Duke  bade  Pablo  sing, 
But,  while  he  sang,  called  Eoldan  wide  apart, 
And  told  him  of  a  mission  secret,  brief,  — 
A  quest  which  well  performed  might  earn  much 

gold, 
But.  if  betrayed,  another  sort  of  wages. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  161 

Eoldan  was  ready ;  "  wished  above  all  for  gold 
And  never  wished  to  speak ;  had  worked  enough 
At  wagging  his  old  tongue  and  chiming  jokes ; 
Thought  it  was  others'  turn  to  play  the  fool. 
Give  him  but  pence  enough,  no  rabbit,  sirs, 
Would  eat  and  stare  and  be  more  dumb  than  he. 
Give  him  his  orders." 

They  were  given  straight ; 
Gold  for  the  journey,  and  to  buy  a  mule 
Outside  the  gates  through  which  he  was  to  pass 
Afoot  and  carelessly.     The  boy  would  stay 
Within  the  castle,  at  the  Duke's  command, 
And  must  have  naught  but  ignorance  to  betray 
For  threats  or  coaxing.     Once  the  quest  performed, 
The  news  delivered  with  some  pledge  of  truth 
Safe  to  the  Duke,  the  juggler  should  go  forth, 
A  fortune  in  his  girdle,  take  his  boy 
And  settle  firm  as  any  planted  tree 
In  fair  Valencia,  never  more  to  roam. 
"  Good !  good !  most  worthy  of  a  great  hidalgo ! 
And  Eoldan  was  the  man  !     But  Annibal,  — 
A  monkey  like  no  other,  though  morose 
In  private  character,  yet  full  of  tricks,  — 
'T  were  hard  to  carry  him,  yet  harder  still 
To  leave  the  boy  and  him  in  company 
And  free  to  slip  away.     The  boy  was  wild 
And  shy  as  mountain  kid ;  once  hid  himself 
And  tried  to  run  away ;  and  Annibal, 
Who  always  took  the  lad's  side  (he  was  small, 
And  they  were  nearer  of  a  size,  and,  sirs, 
Your  monkey  has  a  spite  against  us  men 
For  being  bigger),  —  Annibal  went  too. 
Would  hardly  know  himself,  were  he  to  lose 
Both  boy  and  monkey,  —  and  't  was  property, 
The  trouble  he  had  put  in  Annibal. 

VQt.    I.  ^~  )  ' 


i63  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

He  did  n't  choose  another  man  should  beat 

His  boy  and  monkey.     If  they  ran  away 

Some  man  would  snap  them  up,  and  square  himself 

And  say  they  were  his  goods,  —  he  'd  taught  them, 

—  no! 

He  Roldan  had  no  mind  another  man 
Should  fatten  by  his  monkey,  and  the  boy 
Should  not  be  kicked  by  any  pair  of  sticks 
Calling  himself  a  juggler."  .  .  . 

But  the  Duke, 

Tired  of  that  hammering,  signed  that  it  should  cease ; 
Bade  Roldan  quit  all  fears,  —  the  boy  and  ape 
Should  be  safe  lodged  in  Abderahman's  tower, 
In  keeping  of  the  great  physician  there, 
The  Duke's  most  special  confidant  and  friend, 
One  skilled  in  taming  brutes,  and  always  kind. 
The  Duke  himself  this  eve  would  see  them  lodged. 
Roldan  must  go,  —  spend  no  more  words,  —  but  go. 


A  room  high  up  in  Abderahman's  tower, 
A  window  open  to  the  still  warm  eve, 
And  the  bright  disk  of  royal  Jupiter. 
Lamps  burning  low  make  little  atmospheres 
Of  light  amid  the  dimness ;  here  and  there 
Show  books  and  phials,  stones  and  instruments. 
In  carved  dark-oaken  chair,  unpillowed,  sleeps 
Right  in  the  rays  of  Jupiter  a  small  man, 
In  skull-cap  bordered  close  with  crisp  gray  curls, 
And  loose  black  gown  showing  a  neck  and  breast 
Protected  by  a  dim-green  amulet ; 
Pale-faced,  with  finest  nostril  wont  to  breathe 
Ethereal  passion  in  a  world  of  thought ; 
Eyebrows  jet-black  and  firm,  yet  delicate ; 
Beard  scant  and  grizzled;  mouth  shut  firm,  with 
curves 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  163 

So  subtly  turned  to  meanings  exquisite, 
You  seem  to  read  them  as  you  read  a  word 
Full-vowelled,  long-descended,  pregnant, —  rich 
With  legacies  from  long,  laborious  lives. 
Close  by  him,  like  a  genius  of  sleep, 
Purrs  the  gray  cat,  bridling,  with  snowy  breast. 
A  loud  knock.     "  Forward !  "  in  clear  vocal  ring. 
Enter  the  Duke,  Pablo,  and  Annibal. 
Exit  the  cat,  retreating  toward  the  dark. 

DON  SILVA. 
You  slept,  Sephardo.     I  am  come  too  soon. 

SEPHARDO. 

Nay,  my  lord,  it  was  I  who  slept  too  long. 
I  go  to  court  among  the  stars  to-night, 
So  bathed  my  soul  beforehand  in  deep  sleep. 
But  who  are  these  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Small  guests,  for  whom  I  ask 
Your  hospitality.     Their  owner  comes 
Some  short  time  hence  to  claim  them.    I  am  pledged 
To  keep  them  safely ;  so  I  bring  them  you, 
Trusting  your  friendship  for  small  animals. 

SEPHARDO. 
Yea,  am  not  I  too  a  small  animal  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

I  shall  be  much  beholden  to  your  love 
If  you  will  be  their  guardian.     I  can  trust 
No  other  man  so  well  as  you.     The  boy 
Will  please  you  with  his  singing,  touches  too 
The  viol  wondrously. 


164  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

SEPHAKDO. 

They  are  welcome  both. 
Their  names  are  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Pablo,  this  —  this  Annibal, 
And  yet,  I  hope,  no  warrior. 

SEPHARDO. 

We'll  make  peace. 

Come,  Pablo,  let  us  loosen  our  friend's  chain. 
Deign  you,  my  lord,  to  sit.      Here,  Pablo,  thou  — 
Close  to  my  chair.     Now  Annibal  shall  choose. 

[The  cautious  monkey,  in  a  Moorish  dress, 

A  tunic  white,  turban  and  scymitar, 

Wears  these  stage  garments,  nay,  his  very  flesh 

With  silent  protest ;  keeps  a  neutral  air 

As  aiming  at  a  metaphysic  state 

'Twixt  "  is"  and  "  is  not;"  lets  his  chain  be  loosed 

By  sage  Sephardo's  hands,  sits  still  at  first, 

Then  trembles  out  of  his  neutrality, 

Looks  up  and  leaps  into  Sephardo's  lap, 

And  chatters  forth  his  agitated  soul, 

Turning  to  peep  at  Pablo  on  the  floor.] 

-SEPHARDO. 
See,  he  declares  we  are  at  amity ! 

DON  SILVA. 
No  brother  sage  had  read  your  nature  faster. 

SEPHARDO. 

Why,  so  he  is  a  brother  sage.      Man  thinks 
Brutes  have  no  wisdom,  since  they  know  not  his : 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  165 

Can  we  divine  their  world?  —  the  hidden  life 
That  mirrors  us  as  hideous  shapeless  power, 
Cruel  supremacy  of  sharp-edged  death, 
Or  fate  that  leaves  a  bleeding  mother  robbed  ? 
Oh,  they  have  long  tradition  and  swift  speech, 
Can  tell  with  touches  and  sharp  darting  cries 
Whole  histories  of  timid  races  taught 
To  breathe  in  terror  by  red-handed  man. 

DON  SILVA. 

Ah,    you    denounce    my  sport   with    hawk    and 

hound. 

I  would  not  have  the  angel  Gabriel 
As  hard  as  you  in  noting  down  my  sins. 

SEPHARDO. 

Nay,  they  are  virtues  for  you  warriors, — 
Hawking  and  hunting !     You  are  merciful 
When  you  leave  killing  men  to  kill  the  brutes. 
But,  for  the  point  of  wisdom,  I  would  choose 
To  know  the  mind  that  stirs  between  the  wings 
Of  bees  and  building  wasps,  or  fills  the  woods 
With  myriad  murmurs  of  responsive  sense 
And  true-aimed  impulse,  rather  than  to  know 
The  thoughts  of  warriors. 

DON  SILVA. 

Yet  they  are  warriors  too, — 
Your  animals.     Your  judgment  limps,  Sephardo : 
Death  is  the  king  of  this  world ;  't  is  his  park 
Where  he  breeds  life  to  feed  him.     Cries  of  pain 
Are  music  for  his  banquet;  and  the  masque, — 
The  last  grand  masque  for  his  diversion,  is 
The  Holy  Inquisition. 


166  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

SEPHAKDO. 

Ay,  anon 

I  may  chime  in  with  you.     But  not  the  less 
My  judgment  has  firm  feet.     Though  death  were 

king, 

And  cruelty  his  right-hand  minister, 
Pity  insurgent  in  some  human  breasts 
Makes  spiritual  empire,  reigns  supreme 
As  persecuted  faith  in  faithful  hearts. 
Your  small  physician,  weighing  ninety  pounds, 
A  petty  morsel  for  a  healthy  shark, 
Will  worship  mercy  throned  within  his  soul 
Though  all  the  luminous  angels  of  the  stars 
Burst  into  cruel  chorus  on  his  ear, 
Singing,  "  We  know  no  mercy.  "     He  would  cry 
"  I  know  it"  still,  and  soothe  the  frightened  bird 
And  feed  the  child  a-hungered,  walk  abreast 
Of  persecuted  men,  and  keep  most  hate 
For  rational  torturers.     There  I  stand  firm. 
But  you  are  bitter,  and  my  speech  rolls  on 
Out  of  your  note. 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  no,  I  follow  you. 

I  too  have  that  within  which  I  will  worship 
In  spite  of  —  yes,  Sephardo,  I  am  bitter. 
I  need  your  counsel,  foresight,  all  your  aid. 
Lay  these  small  guests  to  bed,  then  we  will  talk. 

SEPHARDO. 

See,  they  are  sleeping  now.     The  boy  has  made 
My  leg  his  pillow.     For  my  brother  sage, 
He  '11  never  heed  us ;  he  knit  long  ago 
A  sound  ape-system,  wherein  men  are  brutes 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.  167 

Emitting  doubtful  noises.     Pray,  my  lord, 
Unlade  what  burdens  you  :  my  ear  and  hand 
Are  servants  of  a  heart  much  bound  to  you. 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes,  yours  is  love  that  roots  in  gifts  bestowed 
By  you  on  others,  and  will  thrive  the  more 
The  more  it  gives.     I  have  a  double  want : 
First  a  confessor,  — not  a  Catholic  ; 
A  heart  without  a  livery,  —  naked  manhood. 

SEPHAEDO. 

My  lord,  I  will  be  frank,  there  's  no  such  thing 

As  naked  manhood.     If  the  stars  look  down 

On  any  mortal  of  our  shape,  whose  strength 

Is  to  judge  all  things  without  preference, 

He  is  a  monster,  not  a  faithful  man. 

While  my  heart  beats,  it  shall  wear  livery, — 

My  people's  livery,  whose  yellow  badge 

Marks  them  for  Christian  scorn.      I  will  not  say 

Man  is  first  man  to  me,  then  Jew  or  Gentile : 

That  suits  the  rich  marranos  ;  but  to  me 

My  father  is  first  father  and  then  man. 

So  much  for  frankness'  sake.      But  let  that  pass. 

'T  is  true  at  least,  I  am  no  Catholic, 

But  Salomo  Sephardo,  a  born  Jew, 

Willing  to  serve  Don  Silva. 

DON  SILVA. 

Oft  you  sing 

Another  strain,  and  melt  distinctions  down, 
As  no  more  real  than  the  wall  of  dark 
Seen  by  small  fishes'  eyes,  that  pierce  a  span 
In  the  wide  ocean.     Now  you  league  yourself 
To  hem  me,  hold  me  prisoner  in  bonds 


168  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Made,  say  you,  —  how  ?  —  by  God  or  Demiurge, 
By  spirit  or  flesh,  —  I  care  not !     Love  was  made 
Stronger  than  bonds,  and  where  they  press  must 

break  them. 

I  came  to  you  that  I  might  breathe  at  large, 
And  now  you  stifle  me  with  talk  of  birth, 
Of  race  and  livery.      Yet  you  knew  Fedalma. 
She  was  your  friend,  Sephardo.      And  you  know 
She  is  gone  from  me,  —  know  the  hounds  are  loosed 
To  dog  me  if  I  seek  her. 

SEPHARDO. 

Yes.  I  know. 

Forgive  me  that  I  used  untimely  speech, 
Pressing  a  bruise.     I  loved  her  well,  my  lord : 
A  woman  mixed  of  such  fine  elements 
That  were  all  virtue  and  religion  dead 
She  'd  make  them  newly,  being  what  she  was. 

DON  SILVA. 

Was  ?  say  not  was,  Sephardo!     She  still  lives, — 

Is,  and  is  mine ;  and  I  will  not  renounce 

What  heaven,   nay,  what  she   gave   me.      I  will 

sin, 

If  sin  I  must,  to  win  my  life  again. 
The  fault  lie  with  those  powers  who  have  embroiled 
The  world  in  hopeless  conflict,  where  all  truth 
Fights  manacled  with  falsehood,  and  all  good 
Makes  but  one  palpitating  life  with  evil. 

(DON  SILVA  pauses.     SEPHARDO  is  silent.) 
Sephardo,  speak !  am  I  not  justified  ? 
You  taught  my  mind  to  use  the  wing  that  soars 
Above  the  petty  fences  of  the  herd : 
Now,  when  I  need  your  doctrine,  you  are  dumb. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  169 

SEPHARDO. 

Patience !     Hidalgos  want  interpreters 
Of  untold  dreams  and  riddles ;  they  insist 
On  dateless  horoscopes,  on  formulas 
To  raise  a  possible  spirit,  nowhere  named. 
Science  must  be  their  wishing  cap ;  the  stars 
Speak  plainer  for  high  largesse.     No,  my  lord ! 
I  cannot  counsel  you  to  unknown  deeds. 
Thus  much  I  can  divine :  you  wish  to  find 
Her  whom  you  love,  —  to  make  a  secret  search. 

DON  SILVA, 

That  is  begun  already :  a  messenger 
Unknown  to  all  has  been  despatched  this  night. 
But  forecast  must  be  used,  a  plan  devised, 
Eeady  for  service  when  my  scout  returns, 
Bringing  the  invisible  thread  to  guide  my  steps 
Toward  that  lost  self  my  life  is  aching  with. 
Sephardo,  I  will  go :  and  I  must  go 
Unseen  by  all  save  you ;  though,  at  our  need, 
We  may  trust  Alvar. 

SEPHARDO. 

A  grave  task,  my  lord. 
Have  you  a  shapen  purpose,  or  mere  will 
That  sees  the  end  alone  and  not  the  means  ? 
Eesolve  will  melt  no  rocks. 

DON  SILVA. 

But  it  can  scale  them. 
This  fortress  has  two  private  issues  :  one, 
Which  served  the  Gypsies'  flight,  to  me  is  closed: 
Our  bands  must  watch  the  outlet,  now  betrayed 
To  cunning  enemies.      Remains  one  other, 
Known  to  no  man  save  me :  a  secret  left 


170  POEMS  OF   GEORGE  ELIOT. 

As  heirloom  in  our  house :  a  secret  safe 

Even  from  him, —  from  Father  Isidor. 

'T  is  he  who  forces  me  to  use  it,  —  he : 

All  's    virtue    that    cheats    bloodhounds.       Hear, 

Sephardo. 

Given,  my  scout  returns  and  brings  me  news 
I  can  straight  act  on,  I  shall  want  your  aid. 
The  issue  lies  below  this  tower,  your  fastness, 
Where,  by  my  charter,  you  rule  absolute. 
I  shall  feign  illness ;  you  with  mystic  air 
Must  speak  of  treatment  asking  vigilance 
(Nay,  I  am  ill, —  my  life  has  half  ebbed  out). 
I  shall  be  whimsical,  devolve  command 
On  Don  Diego,  speak  of  poisoning, 
Insist  on  being  lodged  within  this  tower, 
And  rid  myself  of  tendance  save  from  you 
And  perhaps  from  Alvar.     So  I  shall  escape 
Unseen  by  spies,  shall  win  the  days  I  need 
To  ransom  her  and  have  her  safe  enshrined. 
No  matter,  were  my  flight  disclosed  at  last : 
I  shall  come  back  as  from  a  duel  fought 
Which  no  man  can  undo.      Now  you  know  alL 
Say,  can  I  count  on  you  ? 

SEPHARDO. 

For  faithfulness 

In  aught  that  I  may  promise  —  yes,  my  lord. 
But  —  for  a  pledge  of  faithfulness  —  this  warning. 
I  will  betray  naught  for  your  personal  harm : 
I  love  you.     But  note  this, —  I  am  a  Jew; 
And  while  the  Christian  persecutes  my  race, 
I'll  turn  at  need  even  the  Christian's  trust 
Into  a  weapon  and  a  shield  for  Jews. 
Shall  Cruelty  crowned — wielding  the  savage  force 
Of  multitudes,  and  calling  savageness  God 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  171 

Who  gives  it  victory  —  upbraid  deceit 
And  ask  for  faithfulness  ?     I  love  you  well. 
You  are  my  friend.     But  yet  you  are  a  Christian, 
Whose  birth  has  bound  you  to  the  Catholic  kings. 
There  may  come  moments  when  to  share  my  joy 
Would  make  you  traitor,  when  to  share  your  grief 
Would  make  me  other  than  a  Jew  .   .   . 

DON  SILVA. 

What  need 

To  urge  that  now,  Sephardo  ?     I  am  one 
Of  many  Spanish  nobles  who  detest 
The  roaring  bigotry  of  the  herd,  would  fain 
Dash  from  the  lips  of  king  and  queen  the  cup 
Filled  with  besotting  venom,  half  infused 
By  avarice  and  half  by  priests.      And  now, — 
Now  when  the  cruelty  you  flout  me  with 
Pierces  me  too  in  the  apple  of  my  eye, 
Now  when  my  kinship  scorches  me  like  hate 
Flashed  from  a  mother's  eye,  you  choose  this  time 
To  talk  of  birth  as  of  inherited  rage 
Deep-down,  volcanic,  fatal,  bursting  forth 
From  under  hard-taught  reason  ?   Wondrous  friend- 
ship ! 

My  uncle  Isidor's  echo,  mocking  me, 
From  the  opposing  quarter  of  the  heavens, 
With  iteration  of  the  thing  I  know, 
That  I  'm  a  Christian  knight  and  Spanish  noble ! 
The  consequence  ?     Why,  that  I  know.      It  lies 
In  my  own  hands  and  not  on  raven  tongues. 
The  knight  and  noble  shall  not  wear  the  chain 
Of  false-linked  thoughts  in  brains  of  other  men. 
What  question  was  there  'twixt  us  two,  of  aught 
That  makes  division  ?     When  I  come  to  you 
I  come  for  other  doctrine  than  the  Prior's. 


172  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

SEPHARDO. 

My  lord,  you  are  o'erwrought  by  pain.     My  words, 

That  carried  innocent  meaning,  do  but  float 

Like  little  emptied  cups  upon  the  flood 

Your  mind  brings  with  it.     I  but  answered  you 

With  regular  proviso,  such  as  stands 

In  testaments  and  charters,  to  forefend 

A  possible  case  which  none  deem  likelihood ; 

Just  turned  my  sleeve,  and  pointed  to  the  brand 

Of  brotherhood  that  limits  every  pledge. 

Superfluous  nicety,  —  the  student's  trick, 

Who  will  not  drink  until  he  can  define 

What  water  is  and  is  not.     But  enough. 

My  will  to  serve  you  now  knows  no  division 

Save  the  alternate  beat  of  love  and  fear. 

There  's    danger   in    this    quest, —  name,    honour, 

life,- 
My  lord,  the  stake  is  great,  and  are  you  sure  .  .   . 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  I  am  sure  of  naught  but  this,  Sephardo, 
That  I  will  go.     Prudence  is  but  conceit 
Hoodwinked  by  ignorance.     There's  naught  exists 
That  is  not  dangerous  and  holds  not  death 
For  souls  or  bodies.     Prudence  turns  its  helm 
To  flee  the  storm  and  lands  'mid  pestilence. 
Wisdom  must  end  by  throwing  dice  with  folly 
But  for  dire  passion  which  alone  makes  choice. 
And  I  have  chosen  as  the  lion  robbed 
Chooses  to  turn  upon  the  ravisher. 
If  love  were  slack,  the  Prior's  imperious  will 
Would  move  it  to  outmatch  him.      But,  Sephardo, 
Were  all  else  mute,  all  passive  as  sea-calms, 
My  soul  is  one  great  hunger,  —  I  must  see  her. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  173 

Now  you  are  smiling.      Oh,  you  merciful  men 
Pick  up  coarse  griefs  and  fling  them  in  the  face 
Of  us  whom  life  with  long  descent  has  trained 
To  subtler  pains,  mocking  your  ready  balms. 
You  smile  at  my  soul's  hunger. 

SEPHARDO. 

Science  smiles 

And  sways  our  lips  in  spite  of  us,  my  lord, 
When  thought  weds  fact, —  when  maiden  prophecy 
Waiting,  believing,  sees  the  bridal  torch. 
I  use  not  vulgar  measures  for  your  grief, 
My  pity  keeps  no  cruel  feasts ;  but  thought 
Has  joys  apart,  even  in  blackest  woe, 
And  seizing  some  fine  thread  of  verity 
Knows  momentary  godhead. 

DON  SILVA. 

And  your  thought  ? 

SEPHARDO. 

Seized  on  the  close  agreement  of  your  words 
With  what  is  written  in  your  horoscope. 

DON  SILVA. 
Beach  it  me  now. 

SEPHARDO. 

By  your  leave,  Annibal. 
(He  places  ANNIBAL  on  PABLO'S  lap  and  rises. 
The  boy  moves  without  waking,  and  his  head 
falls  on  the  opposite  side.  SEPHARDO  fetches 
a  cushion  and  lays  PABLO'S  head  gently 
down  upon  it,  then  goes  to  reach  the  parch- 
ment from  a  cabinet.  ANNIBAL,  having 
waked  up  in  alarm,  shuts  his  eyes  quickly 
again  and  pretends  to  sleep.) 


174  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 

I  wish,  by  new  appliance  of  your  skill, 
Beading  afresh  the  records  of  the  sky, 
You  could  detect  more  special  augury. 
Such  chance  oft  happens,  for  all  characters 
Must  shrink  or  widen,  as  our  wine-skins  do, 
For  more  or  less  that  we  can  pour  in  them ; 
And  added  years  give  ever  a  new  key 
To  fixed  prediction. 

SEPHARDO  (returning  with  the  parchment  and  reseat- 
ing himself). 

True  ;  our  growing  thought 
Makes  growing  revelation.      But  demand  not 
Specific  augury,  as  of  sure  success 
In  meditated  projects,  or  of  ends 
To  be  foreknown  by  peeping  in  God's  scroll. 
I  say  —  nay,  Ptolemy  said  it,  but  wise  books 
For  half  the  truths  they  hold  are  honoured  tombs 
Prediction  is  contingent,  of  effects 
Where  causes  and  concomitants  are  mixed 
To  seeming  wealth  of  possibilities 
Beyond  our  reckoning.      Who  will  pretend 
To  tell  the  adventures  of  each  single  fish 
Within  the  Syrian  Sea  ?     Show  me  a  fish, 
I'll  weigh  him,  tell  his  kind,  what  he  devoured, 
What   would   have   devoured  him, — but  for  one 

Bias 

Who  netted  him  instead  ;  nay,  could  I  tell 
That  had  Bias  missed   him,  he  would   not  have 

died 

Of  poisonous  mud,  and  so  made  carrion, 
Swept  off  at  last  by  some  sea-scavenger  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  175 

DON  SILVA. 

Ay,  now  you  talk  of  fishes,  you  get  hard. 
I  note  you  merciful  men :  you  can  endure 
Torture  of  fishes  and  hidalgos.  Follows  ? 

SEPHAKDO. 

By  how  much,  then,  the  fortunes  of  a  man 

Are  made  of  elements  refined  and  mixed 

Beyond  a  tunny's,  what  our  science  tells 

Of  the  stars'  influence  hath  contingency 

In  special  issues.     Thus,  the  loadstone  draws, 

Acts  like  a  will  to  make  the  iron  submiss ; 

But  garlic  rubbing  it,  that  chief  effect 

Lies  in  suspense ;  the  iron  keeps  at  large, 

And  garlic  is  controller  of  the  stone. 

And  so,  my  lord,  your  horoscope  declares 

Naught  absolutely  of  your  sequent  lot, 

But,  by  our  lore's  authentic  rules,  sets  forth 

What  gifts,  what  dispositions,  likelihoods, 

The  aspects  of  the  heavens  conspired  to  fuse 

With   your   incorporate    soul.     Aught   more  than 

this 

Is  vulgar  doctrine.     For  the  ambient, 
Though  a  cause  regnant,  is  not  absolute, 
But  suffers  a  determining  restraint 
From  action  of  the  subject  qualities 
In  proximate  motion. 

DON  SILVA. 

Yet  you  smiled  just  now 
At  some  close  fitting  of  my  horoscope 
With  present  fact, —  with  this  resolve  of  mine 
To  quit  the  fortress  ? 


1 76  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

SEPHARDO. 

Nay,  not  so,  I  smiled, 
Observing  how  the  temper  of  your  soul 
Sealed  long  tradition  of  the  influence  shed 
By  the  heavenly  spheres.    Here  is  your  horoscope 
The  aspects  of  the  moon  with  Mars  conjunct, 
Of  Venus  and  the  Sun  with  Saturn,  lord 
Of  the  ascendant,  make  symbolic  speech 
Whereto  your  words  gave  running  paraphrase. 

DON  SILVA  (impatiently). 
What  did  I  say  ? 

SEPHARDO. 

You  spoke  as  oft  you  did 
When  I  was  schooling  you  at  Cordova, 
And  lessons  on  the  noun  and  verb  were  drowned 
With  sudden  stream  of  general  debate 
On  things  and  actions.     Always  in  that  stream 
I  saw  the  play  of  babbling  currents,  saw 
A  nature  o'er-endowed  with  opposites 
Making  a  self  alternate,  where  each  hour 
Was  critic  of  the  last,  each  mood  too  strong 
For  tolerance  of  its  fellow  in  close  yoke. 
The  ardent  planets  stationed  as  supreme, 
Potent  in  action,  suffer  light  malign 
From  luminaries  large  and  coldly  bright 
Inspiring  meditative  doubt,  which  straight 
Doubts  of  itself,  by  interposing  act 
Of  Jupiter  in  the  fourth  house  fortified 
With  power  ancestral.     So,  my  lord,  I  read 
The  changeless  in  the  changing ;  so  I  read 
The  constant  action  of  celestial  powers 
Mixed  into  waywardness  of  mortal  men, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  177 

Whereof  no  sage's  eye  can  trace  the  course 
And  see  the  close. 

DON  SILVA. 

Fruitful  result,  0  sage ! 
Certain  uncertainty. 

SEPHARDO. 

Yea,  a  result 

Fruitful  as  seeded  earth,  where  certainty 
Would  be  as  barren  as  a  globe  of  gold. 
I  love  you,  and  would  serve  you  well,  my  lord. 
Your  rashness  vindicates  itself  too  much, 
Puts  harshness  on  of  cobweb  theory 
While  rushing  like  a  cataract.     Be  warned. 
Eesolve  with  you  is  a  fire-breathing  steed, 
But  it  sees  visions,  and  may  feel  the  air 
Impassable  with  thoughts  that  come  too  late, 
Rising  from  out  the  grave  of  murdered  honour. 
Look  at  your  image  in  your  horoscope : 

(Laying  the  horoscope  before  SlLVA.) 
You  are  so  mixed,  my  lord,  that  each  to-day 
May  seem  a  maniac  to  its  morrow. 

DON  SILVA  (pushing  away  the  horoscope,  rising  and 
turning  to  look  out  at  the  open  window). 

No! 

No  morrow  e'er  will  say  that  I  am  mad 
Not  to  renounce  her.     Risks !  I  know  them  all. 
I've  dogged  each  lurking,  ambushed  consequence. 
I've  handled  every  chance  to  know  its  shape 
As  blind  men  handle  bolts.     Oh,  I'm  too  sane, 
I  see  the  Prior's  nets.     He  does  my  deed ; 
For  he  has  narrowed  all  my  life  to  this, — 
That  I  must  find  her  by  some  hidden  means. 

(He  turns  and  stands  close  in  front  of  SEPHARDO.) 

VOL.  i.  — 12 


178  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

One  word,  Sephardo,  —  leave  that  horoscope, 
Which  is  but  iteration  of  myself, 
And  give  me  promise.      Shall  I  count  on  you 
To  act  upon  my  signal  ?     Kings  of  Spain 
Like  me  have  found  their  refuge  in  a  Jew, 
And  trusted  in  his  counsel.      You  will  help  me  ? 

SEPHARDO. 

Yes,  my  lord,  I  will  help  you.     Israel 

Is  to  the  nations  as  the  body's  heart: 

Thus  saith  the  Book  of  Light :  and  I  will  act 

So  that  no  man  may  ever  say  through  me 

"  Your  Israel  is  naught, "  and  make  my  deeds 

The  mud  they  fling  upon  my  brethren. 

I  will  not  fail  you,  save, —  you  know  the  terms  : 

I  am  a  Jew,  and  not  that  infamous  life 

That  takes  on  bastardy,  will  know  no  father, 

So  shrouds  itself  in  the  pale  abstract,  Man. 

You  should  be  sacrificed  to  Israel 

If  Israel  needed  it. 

DON  SILVA. 

I  fear  not  that. 

I  am  no  friend  of  fines  and  banishment, 
Or  flames  that,  fed  on  heretics,  still  gape, 
And  must  have  heretics  made  to  feed  them  still. 
I  take  your  terms,  and,  for  the  rest,  your  love 
Will  not  forsake  me. 

SEPHARDO. 

'T  is  hard  Roman  love, 

That  looks  away  and  stretches  forth  the  sword 
Bared  for  its  master's  breast  to  run  upon. 
But  you  will  have  it  so.     Love  shall  obey. 

(SlLVA  turns  to  the  ivindow  again,  and  is  silent 
/or  a  few  moments,  looking  at  the  sky.} 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  179 

DON  SILVA, 

See  now,  Sephardo,  you  would  keep  no  faith 
To  smooth  the  path  of  cruelty.     Confess, 
The  deed  I  would  not  do,  save  for  the  strait 
Another  brings  me  to  (quit  my  command, 
Eesign  it  for  brief  space,  I  mean  no  more),  — 
Were  that  deed  branded,  then  the  brand  should  fix 
On  him  who  urged  me. 

SEPHARDO. 

Will  it,  though,  my  lord  ? 

DON  SILVA. 
I  speak  not  of  the  fact,  but  of  the  right. 

SEPHARDO. 

My  lord,  you  said  but  now  you  were  resolved. 
Question  not  if  the  world  will  be  unjust 
Branding  your  deed.     If  conscience  has  two  courts 
With  differing  verdicts,  where  shall  lie  the  appeal  ? 
Our  law  must  be  without  us  or  within. 
The  Highest  speaks  through  all  our  people's  voice, 
Custom,  tradition,  and  old  sanctities ; 
Or  he  reveals  himself  by  new  decrees 
Of  inward  certitude. 

DON  SILVA. 

My  love  for  her 
Makes  highest  law,  must  be  the  voice  of  God. 

SEPHARDO. 

I  thought,  but  now,  you  seemed  to  make  excuse, 
And  plead  as  in  some  court  where  Spanish  knights 
Are  tried  by  other  laws  than  those  of  love. 


i So  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 

'T  was  momentary.     I  shall  dare  it  all. 
How  the  great  planet  glows,  and  looks  at  me, 
And  seems  to  pierce  me  with  his  effluence ! 
Were  he  a  living  God,  these  rays  that  stir 
In  me  the  pulse  of  wonder  were  in  him 
Fulness  of  knowledge.     Are  you  certified, 
Sephardo,  that  the  astral  science  shrinks 
To  such  pale  ashes,  dead  symbolic  forms 
For  that  congenital  mixture  of  effects 
Which  life  declares  without  the  aid  of  lore  ? 
If  there  are  times  propitious  or  malign 
To  our  first  framing,  then  must  all  events 
Have  favouring  periods  :  you  cull  your  plants 
By  signal  of  the  heavens,  then  why  not  trace 
As  others  would  by  astrologic  rule 
Times  of  good  augury  for  momentous  acts, — 
As  secret  journeys  ? 

SEPHARDO. 

O  my  lord,  the  stars 

Act  not  as  witchcraft  or  as  muttered  spells. 
I  said  before  they  are  not  absolute, 
And  tell  no  fortunes.     I  adhere  alone 
To  such  tradition  of  their  agencies 
As  reason  fortifies. 

DON  SILVA. 

A  barren  science ! 

Some  argue  now  't  is  folly.      'T  were  as  well 
Be    of    their   mind.      If    those   bright    stars  had 

will,— 

But  they  are  fatal  fires,  and  know  no  love. 
Of  old,  I  think,  the  world  was  happier 


THE  SPANISH   GYPSY.  181 

With  many  gods,  who  held  a  struggling  life 
As  mortals  do,  and  helped  men  in  the  straits 
Of  forced  misdoing.  I  doubt  that  horoscope. 

(DON  SlLVA  turns  from  the  window  and  re* 
seats  himself  opposite  SEPHARDO.) 

I  am  most  self-contained,  and  strong  to  bear. 
No  man  save  you  has  seen  my  trembling  lip 
Uttering  her  name,  since  she  was  lost  to  me. 
I'll  face  the  progeny  of  all  my  deeds. 

SEPHARDO. 

May  they  be  fair !     No  horoscope  makes  slaves. 
'T  is  but  a  mirror,  shows  one  image  forth, 
And  leaves  the  future  dark  with  endless  "ifs. " 

DON  SILVA. 

I  marvel,  my  Sephardo,  you  can  pinch 

With  confident  selection  these  few  grains, 

And  call  them  verity,  from  out  the  dust 

Of  crumbling  error.     Surely  such  thought  creeps, 

With  insect  exploration  of  the  world. 

Were  I  a  Hebrew,  now,  I  would  be  bold. 

Why  should  you  fear,  not  being  Catholic  ? 

SEPHARDO. 

Lo !  you  yourself,  my  lord,  mix  subtleties 
With  gross  belief ;  by  momentary  lapse 
Conceive,  with  all  the  vulgar,  that  we  Jews 
Must  hold  ourselves  God's  outlaws,  and  defy 
All  good  with  blasphemy,  because  we  hold 
Your  good  is  evil ;  think  we  must  turn  pale 
To  see  our  portraits  painted  in  your  hell, 
And  sin  the  more  for  knowing  we  are  lost. 


182  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 

Read  not  my  words  with  malice.     I  but  meant, 
My  temper  hates  an  over-cautious  march. 

SEPHARDO. 

The  Unnamable  made  not  the  search  for  truth 
To  suit  hidalgos'  temper.     I  abide 
By  that  wise  spirit  of  listening  reverence 
Which  marks  the  boldest  doctors  of  our  race. 
For  truth,  to  us,  is  like  a  living  child 
Born  of  two  parents :  if  the  parents  part 
And  will  divide  the  child,  how  shall  it  live  ? 
Or,  I  will  rather  say  :  Two  angels  guide 
The  path  of  man,  both  aged  and  yet  young, 
As  angels  are,  ripening  through  endless  years. 
On  one  he  leans :  some  call  her  Memory, 
And  some,  Tradition ;  and  her  voice  is  sweet, 
With  deep  mysterious  accords :  the  other, 
Floating  above,  holds  down  a  lamp  which  streams 
A  light  divine  and  searching  on  the  earth, 
Compelling  eyes  and  footsteps.     Memory  yields, 
Yet  clings  with  loving  check,  and  shines  anew 
Reflecting  all  the  rays  of  that  bright  lamp 
Our  angel  Reason  holds.     We  had  not  walked 
But  for  Tradition  ;  we  walk  evermore 
To  higher  paths,  by  brightening  Reason's  lamp. 
Still  we  are  purblind,  tottering.     I  hold  less 
Than  Aben-Ezra,  of  that  aged  lore 
Brought  by  long  centuries  from  Chaldsean  plains ; 
The  Jew-taught  Florentine  rejects  it  all. 
For  still  the  light  is  measured  by  the  eye, 
And  the  weak  organ  fails.     I  may  see  ill ; 
But  over  all  belief  is  faithfulness, 
Which  fulfils  vision  with  obedience. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  183 

So,  I  must  grasp  my  morsels :  truth  is  oft 
Scattered  in  fragments  round  a  stately  pile 
Built  half  of  error;  and  the  eye's  defect 
May  breed  too  much  denial.      But,  my  lord, 
I  weary  your  sick  soul      Go  now  with  me 
Into  the  turret.      We  will  watch  the  spheres, 
And  see  the  constellations  bend  and  plunge 
Into  a  depth  of  being  where  our  eyes 
Hold  them  no  more.     We'll  quit  ourselves  and  be 
The  red  Aldebaran  or  bright  Sirius, 
And  sail  as  in  a  solemn  voyage,  bound 
On  some  great  ^uest  we  know  not. 

I>ON  SlLVA. 

Let  us  go. 

She  may  be  watching  t,co,  and  thought  of  her 
Sways  me,  as  if  she  knew,  to  every  act 
Of  pure  allegiance. 

SEPHARDO. 

That  is  love's  perfection,  — 
Tuning  the  soul  to  all  her  harmonies 
So  that  no  chord  can  jar.      Now  we  will  mount. 

(Exeunt.) 


A  large  hall  in  the  Castle,  of  Moorish  architecture. 
On  the  side  where  the  windows  are,  an  outer  gal- 
lery. Pages  and  other  young  gentlemen  attached 
to  DON  SILVA'S  household,  gathered  chiefly  at  one 
end  of  the  hall.  Some  are  moving  about;  others 
are  lounging  on  the  carved  benches;  others,  half 
stretched  on  pieces  of  matting  and  carpet,  are 
gambling.  ARIAS,  a  stripling  of  fifteen,  sings  by 
snatches  in  a  boyish  treble,  as  he  walks  up  and 


1 84  POEMS  OF   GEORGE  ELIOT. 

down,  and  tosses  back  the  nuts  which  another 
youth  flings  towards  him.  In  the  middle  DON 
AMADOU,  a  gaunt,  gray-haired  soldier,  in  a  hand- 
some uniform,  sits  in  a  marble  red-ciishioncd 
chair,  with  a  large  book  spread  out  on  his  knees, 
from  which  he  is  reading  aloud,  while  his  voice  is 
half  drowned  by  the  talk  that  is  going  on  around 
him,  first  one  voice  and  then  another  surging  above 
the  hum. 

ARIAS  (singing). 

There  was  a  holy  hermit 

Who  counted  all  things  loss 
For  Christ  his  Master's  glory : 

He  made  an  ivory  cross, 
And  as  he  knelt  before  it 

And  wept  his  murdered  Lord, 
The  ivory  turned  to  iron, 

The  cross  became  a  sword. 

Josri  (from  the  floor). 

I  say,  twenty  cruzados !  thy  Galician  wit 
Can  never  count. 

HERNANDO  (also  from  the  floor). 
And  thy  Sevillian  wit  always  counts  double. 

ARIAS  (singing). 

The  tears  that  fell  upon  it, 

They  turned  to  red,  red  rust, 
The  tears  that  fell  from  off  it 

Made  writing  in  the  dust. 
The  holy  hermit,  gazing, 

Saw  words  upon  the  ground : 
"  The  sword  be  red  forever 

With  the  blood  of  false  Mahound." 


THE  SPANISH   GYPSY.  185 

DON  AMADOR  (looking  up  from  his  book,  and  rais~ 
ing  his  voice). 

What,  gentlemen !     Our  glorious  Lady  defend  us ! 

ENRIQUEZ  (from  the  benches). 

Serves  the  infidels  right !  They  have  sold  Chris- 
tians enough  to  people  half  the  towns  in  Paradise. 
If  the  Queen,  now,  had  divided  the  pretty  damsels 
of  Malaga  among  the  Castilians  who  have  been 
helping  in  the  holy  war,  and  not  sent  half  of  them 
to  Naples  .  .  . 

ARIAS  (singing  again). 

At  the  battle  of  Clavijo 
In  the  days  of  King  Ramiro, 
Help  us,  Allah  !  cried  the  Moslem, 
Cried  the  Spaniard,  Heaven's  chosen, 

God  and  Santiago  ! 
FABIAN. 

Oh,  the  very  tail  of  our  chance  has  vanished. 
The  royal  army  is  breaking  up,  —  going  home  for 
the  winter.  The  Grand  Master  sticks  to  his  own 
border, 

ARIAS  (singing}. 

Straight  out-flushing  like  the  rainbow, 
See  him  come,  celestial  Baron, 
Mounted  knight,  with  red-crossed  banner, 
Plunging  earthward  to  the  battle, 

Glorious  Santiago  ! 

HURTADO. 

Yes,  yes,  through  the  pass  of  By-and-by  you  go 
to  the  valley  of  Never.  We  might  have  done  a 
great  feat,  if  the  Marquis  of  Cadiz  .  .  . 


i86  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

ARIAS  (sings). 

As  the  flame  before  the  swift  wind, 

See,  he  fires  us,  we  burn  with  him  ! 

Flash  our  swords,  dash  Pagans  backward,  — 

Victory  he  !  pale  fear  is  allah  ! 

God  with  Santiago! 

Dox  AMADOR  (raising  his  voice  to  a  cry), 
Sangre  de  Dios,  gentlemen ! 

(He  shuts  the  book,  and  lets  it  fall  with  a 
bang  on  the  floor.  There  is  instant  silence.} 
To  what  good  end  is  it  that  I,  who  studied  at 
Salamanca,  and  can  write  verses  agreeable  to  the 
glorious  Lady  with  the  point  of  a  sword  which 
hath  done  harder  service,  am  reading  aloud  in  a 
clerkly  manner  from  a  book  which  hath  been  culled 
from  the  flowers  of  all  books,  to  instruct  you  in 
the  knowledge  befitting  those  who  would  be  knights 
and  worthy  hidalgos.  I  had  as  lief  be  reading  in 
a  belfry.  And  gambling  too !  As  if  it  were  a  time 
when  we  needed  not  the  help  of  God  and  the 
saints !  Surely  for  the  space  of  one  hour  ye  might 
subdue  your  tongues  to  your  ears  that  so  your 
tongues  might  learn  somewhat  of  civility  and 
modesty.  "Wherefore  am  I  master  of  the  Duke's 
retinue,  if  my  voice  is  to  run  along  like  a  gutter 
in  a  storm  ? 

HURTADO  (lifting  up  the  book,  and  respectfully  pre- 
senting it  to  DON  AMADOR). 

Pardon,  Don  Amador!  The  air  is  so  commoved 
by  your  voice,  that  it  stirs  our  tongues  in  spite 
of  us. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  187 

DON  AMADOR  {reopening  the  book~). 

Confess,  now,  it  is  a  goose-headed  trick,  that 
when  rational  sounds  are  made  for  your  edifica- 
tion, you  find  naught  in  it  but  an  occasion  for  pur- 
poseless gabble.  I  will  report  it  to  the  Duke,  and 
the  reading-time  shall  be  doubled,  and  my  office  of 
reader  shall  be  handed  over  to  Fray  Domingo. 

(  While  DON  AMADOR  has  been  speaking,  DON 
SILVA,  with  DON  ALVAR,  has  appeared 
walking  in  the  outer  gallery  on  which  the 
windows  are  opened.) 

ALL  (in  concert). 
No,  no,  no. 

DON  AMADOR. 

Are  ye  ready,  then,  to  listen,  if  I  finish  the 
•wholesome  extract  from  the  Seven  Parts,  wherein 
the  wise  King  Alfonso  hath  set  down  the  reason 
why  knights  should  be  of  gentle  birth  ?  Will  ye 
now  be  silent? 

ALL. 
Yes,  silent. 

DON  AMADOR. 

But  when  I  pause,  and  look  up,  I  give  any  leave 
to  speak,  if  he  hath  aught  pertinent  to  say. 

(Reads.') 

"  And  this  nobility  cometh  in  three  ways :  first, 
by  lineage ;  secondly,  by  science ;  and  thirdly,  by 
valour  and  worthy  behaviour.  Now,  although  they 
who  gain  nobility  through  science  or  good  deeds  are 


1 88  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

rightfully  called  noble  and  gentle ;  nevertheless, 
they  are  with  the  highest  fitness  so  called  who  are 
noble  by  ancient  lineage,  and  lead  a  worthy  life  as 
by  inheritage  from  afar ;  and  hence  are  more  bound 
and  constrained  to  act  well,  and  guard  themselves 
from  error  and  wrong-doing ;  for  in  their  case  it  is 
more  true  that  by  evil-doing  they  bring  injury  and 
shame  not  only  on  themselves,  but  also  on  those 
from  whom  they  are  derived." 

(DON  AMADOE  places  Ms  forefinger  for  a 
mark  on  the  page,  and  looks  up,  while  he 
keeps  his  voice  raised,  as  wishing  DON  SILVA 
to  overhear  him  in  the  judicious  discharge 
of  his  function.) 

Hear  ye  that,  young  gentlemen  ?  See  ye  not 
that  if  ye  had  but  bad  manners  even,  they  disgrace 
you  more  than  gross  misdoings  di?grace  the  low- 
born 1  Think  you,  Arias,  it  becomes  the  son  of 
your  house  irreverently  to  sing  and  fling  nuts,  to 
the  interruption  of  your  elders  1 

ARIAS  (sitting  on  the  floor  and  leaning  "backward  on 

his  elbows'). 

Nay,  Don  Amador ;  King  Alfonso,  they  say,  was 
a  heretic,  and  I  think  that  is  not  true  writing.  For 
noble  birth  gives  us  more  leave  to  do  ill  if  we  like. 

DON  AMADOR  (lifting  his  Irows). 
What  bold  and  blasphemous  talk  is  this  ? 

ARIAS. 

Why,  nobles  are  only  punished  now  and  then,  in 
a  grand  way,  and  have  their  heads  cut  off,  like  the 
Grand  Constable.  I  should  n't  mind  that. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  189 


Nonsense,  Arias  !  nobles  have  their  heads  cut  off 
because  their  crimes  are  noble.  If  they  did  what 
was  unknightly,  they  would  come  to  shame.  Is  n't 
that  true,  Don  Amador  ? 

DON  AMADOR. 

Arias  is  a  contumacious  puppy,  who  will  bring 
dishonour  on  his  parentage.  Pray,  sirrah,  whom  did 
you  ever  hear  speak  as  you  have  spoken  ? 

ARIAS. 

Nay,  I  speak  out  of  my  own  head.  I  shall  go 
and  ask  the  Duke. 

HURTADO. 
Now,  now  !  you  are  too  bold,  Arias. 

ARIAS. 

Oh,  he  is  never  angry  with  me  (dropping  his 
voice},  because  the  Lady  Fedalma  liked  me.  She 
said  I  was  a  good  boy,  and  pretty,  and  that  is  what 
you  are  not,  Hurtado. 

HURTADO. 
Girl-face  !     See,  now,  if  you  dare  ask  the  Duke. 

(DON  SlLVA  is  just  entering  the  hall  from  the 
gallery,  with  ALVAR  behind  him,  intending 
to  pass  out  at  the  other  end.  All  rise  with 
homage.  DON  SILVA  bows  coldly  and  ab- 
stractedly. ARIAS  advances  from  the  group, 
and  goes  up  to  DON  SILVA.) 


190  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

ARIAS. 

My  lord,  is  it  true  that  a  noble  is  more  dishonoured 
than  other  men  if  he  does  aught  dishonourable  ? 

DON  SILVA  (first  Hushing  deeply,  and  grasping  his 
sword,  then  raising  his  hand  and  giving  Arias 
a  "blow  on  the  ear). 

Varlet ! 

ARIAS. 

My  lord,  I  am  a  gentleman. 
(DoN  SILVA  pushes  him  away,  and  passes  on 
hurriedly.) 

DON  ALVAR  (following  and  turning  to  speak). 

Go,  go !  you  should  not  speak  to  the  Duke  when 
you  are  not  called  upon.  He  is  ill  and  much 
distempered. 

(ARIAS  retires,  flushed,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 
Sis  companions  look  too  much  surprised 
to  triumph.  DON  AMADOR  remains  silent 
and  confused.) 

The  Pla$a  Santiago  during  busy  market-time.  Muks 
and  asses  laden  with  fmits  and  vegetables. 
Stalls  and  "booths  filled  with  wares  of  all  sorts. 
A  crowd  of  buyers  and  sellers.  A  stalwart 
woman  with  keen  eyes,  leaning  over  the  panniers 
of  a  mule  laden  with  apples,  watches  LORENZO, 
who  is  lounging  through  the  market.  As  he 
approaches  her,  he  is  met  by  BLASCO. 

LORENZO. 
Well  met,  friend. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  191 

BLASCO. 

Ay,  for  we  are  soon  to  part, 
And  I  would  see  you  at  the  hostelry, 
To  take  my  reckoning.     I  go  forth  to-daj. 

LOKENZO. 

'T  is  grievous  parting  with  good  company. 
I  would  I  had  the  gold  to  pay  such  guests 
For  all  my  pleasure  in  their  talk. 

BLASCO. 

Why,  yes ; 

A  solid-headed  man  of  Aragon 
Has  matter  in  him  that  you  Southerners  lack. 
You  like  my  company,  —  't  is  natural. 
But,  look  you,  I  have  done  my  business  well, 
Have  sold  and  ta'en  commissions,     I  come  straight 
From  —  you  know  who  —  I  like  not  naming  him. 
I  'm  a  thick  man  :  you  reach  not  my  backbone 
With  any  toothpick.     But  I  tell  you  this : 
He  reached  it  with  his  eye,  right  to  the  marrow  I 
It  gave  me  heart  that  I  had  plate  to  sell, 
For,  saint  or  no  saint,  a  good  silversmith 
Is  wanted  for  God's  service ;  and  my  plate  — 
He  judged  it  well  —  bought  nobly. 

LOKENZO. 

A  great  man, 
And  holy ! 

BLASCO. 

Yes,  I  'm  glad  I  leave  to-day. 
For  there  are  stories  give  a  sort  of  smell,  — • 
One's  nose  has  fancies.     A  good  trader,  sir. 


192  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Likes  not  this  plague  of  lapsing  in  the  air, 

Most  caught   by  men  with   funds.     And  they  do 

say 

There 's  a  great  terror  here  in  Moors  and  Jews, 
I  would  say,  Christians  of  unhappy  blood. 
'T  is  monstrous,  sure,  that  men  of  substance  lapse, 
And  risk  their  property.     I  know  I  'in  sound. 
No  heresy  was  ever  bait  to  me.     Whate'er 
Is  the  right  faith,  that  I  believe,  —  naught  else. 

LORENZO. 

Ay,  truly,  for  the  flavour  of  true  faith 

Once  known  must  sure  be  sweetest  to  the  taste. 

But  an  uneasy  mood  is  now  abroad 

Within  the  town  ;  partly,  for  that  the  Duke 

Being  sorely  sick,  has  yielded  the  command 

To  Don  Diego,  a  most  valiant  man, 

More  Catholic  than  the  Holy  Father's  self, 

Half  chiding  God  that  he  will  tolerate 

A  Jew  or  Arab  ;  though  't  is  plain  they  're  made 

For  profit  of  good  Christians.      And  weak  heads  — 

Panic  will  knit  all  disconnected  facts  — 

Draw  hence  belief  in  evil  auguries, 

Rumours  of  accusation  and  arrest, 

All  air-begotten.      Sir,  you  need  not  go. 

But  if  it  must  be  so,  I'll  follow  you 

In  fifteen  minutes,  — finish  marketing, 

Then  be  at  home  to  speed  you  on  your  way. 

BLASCO. 

Do  so.     I'll  back  to  Saragossa  straight. 

The  court  and  nobles  are  retiring  now 

And  wending  northward.    There'll  be  fresh  demand 

For  bells  and  images  against  the  Spring, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  193 

When  doubtless  our  great  Catholic  sovereigns 
Will  move  to  conquest  of  these  eastern  parts. 
And  cleanse  Granada  from  the  infidel. 
Stay,  sir,  with  God  until  we  meet  again ! 

LORENZO. 
Go,  sir,  with  God,  until  I  follow  you ! 

(Exit  BLASCO.  LORENZO  passes  on  towards 
the  market-woman,  who,  as  he  approaches, 
raises  herself  from  her  leaning  attitude.) 

LORENZO. 

Good  day,  my  mistress.    How  's  your  merchandise  ? 

Fit  for  a  host  to  buy  ?     Your  apples  now, 

They  have  fair  cheeks ;  how  are  they  at  the  core  ? 

MARKET  -WOMAN. 

Good,  good,   sir!     Taste    and  try.      See,   here   is 

one 
Weighs  a  man's  head.     The  best  are  bound  with 

tow : 
They  're  worth  the   pains,  to  keep  the  peel  from 

splits. 

(She  takes  out  an  apple  bound  with  tow,  and, 
as  she  puts  it  into  LORENZO'S  hand,  speaks 
in  a  lower  tone.) 

'T  is  called  the  Miracle.      You  open  it, 
And  find  it  full  of  speech. 

LORENZO. 

Ay,  give  it  me, 

I'll  take  it  to  the  Doctor  in  the  tower. 
He  feeds  on  fruit,  and  if  he  likes  the  sort 

VOL.  I.  —  13 


194  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

I'll  buy  them  for  him.    Meanwhile,  drive  your  ass 
Round  to  my  hostelry.     I'll  straight  be  there. 
You'll  not  refuse  some  barter? 


MARKET-WOMAN. 

No,  not  I. 

Feathers  and  skins. 

LORENZO. 

Good,  till  we  meet  again. 
(LORENZO,  after  smelling  at  the  apple,  puts  it 
into  a  pouch-like  basket  ivhich  hangs  lief  ore 
him,  and  walks  away.     The  woman  drives 
off  the  mule.) 

A  LETTER, 

"  Zarca,  the  chief  of  the  Zincali,  greets 
The  King  El  Zagal.     Let  the  force  be  sent 
With  utmost  swiftness  to  the  Pass  of  Luz. 
A  good  five  hundred  added  to  my  bands 
Will  master  all  the  garrison :  the  town 
Is  half  with  us,  and  will  not  lift  an  arm 
Save  on  our  side.     My  scouts  have  found  a  way 
Where  once  we  thought  the  fortress  most  secure: 
Spying  a  man  upon  the  height,  they  traced, 
By  keen  conjecture  piercing  broken  sight, 
His  downward  path,  and  found  its  issue.     There 
A  file  of  us  can  mount,  surprise  the  fort 
And  give  the  signal  to  our  friends  within 
To  ope  the  gates  for  our  confederate  bands, 
Who  will  lie  eastward  ambushed  by  the  rocks, 
Waiting  the  night.      Enough  ;  give  me  command, 
Bedmar  is  yours.      Chief  Zarca  will  redeem 
His  pledge  of  highest  service  to  the  Moor : 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  195 

Let  the  Moor,  too,  be  faithful  and  repay 
The  Gypsy  with  the  furtherance  he  needs 
To  lead  his  people  over  Bahr  el  Scham 
And  plant  them  on  the  shore  of  Africa. 
So  may  the  King  El  Zagal  live  as  one 
Who,  trusting  Allah  will  be  true  to  him, 
Maketh  himself  as  Allah  true  to  friends. " 


BOOK   HI. 

QUIT  now  the  town,  and  with  a  journeying  dream 

Swift  as  the  wings  of  sound  yet  seeming  slow 

Through  multitudinous  compression  of  stored  sense 

And  spiritual  space,  see  walls  and  towers 

Lie  in  the  silent  whiteness  of  a  trance, 

Giving  no  sign  of  that  warm  life  within 

That   moves  and   murmurs  through   their  hidden 

heart. 

Pass  o'er  the  mountain,  wind  in  sombre  shade, 
Then  wind  into  the  light  and  see  the  town 
Shrunk  to  white  crust  upon  the  darken  rock. 
Turn  east  and  south,  descend,  then  rise  anew 
'Mid  smaller  mountains  ebbing  towards  the  plain  : 
Scent  the  fresh  breath  of  the  height  loving  herbs 
That,  trodden  by  the  pretty  parted  hoofs 
Of  nimble  goats,  sigh  at  the  innocent  bruise, 
And  with  a  mingled  difference  exquisite 
Pour  a  sweet  burden  on  the  buoyant  air. 
Pause  now  and  be  all  ear.      Far  from  the  south, 
Seeking  the  listening  silence  of  the  heights, 
Comes  a  slow-dying  sound, —  the  Moslems'  call 
To  prayer  in  afternoon.      Bright  in  the  sun 
Like  tall  white  sails  on  a  green  shadowy  sea 
Stand  Moorish  watch-towers :  'neath  that  eastern 

sky 

Couches  unseen  the  strength  of  Moorish  Baza : 
Where  the  meridian  bends  lies  Guadix,  hold 
Of  brave  El  Zagal.     This  is  Moorish  land, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  197 

Where  Allah  lives  unconquered  in  dark  breasts 
And  blesses  still  the  many-nourishing  earth 
With  dark-armed  industry.      See  from  the  steep 
The  scattered  olives  hurry  in  gray  throngs 
Down  towards  the  valley,  where  the  little  stream 
Parts  a  green  hollow  'twixt  the  gentler  slopes  ; 
And  in  that  hollow,  dwellings  :  not  white  homes 
Of  building  Moors,  but  little  swarthy  tents 
Such  as  of  old  perhaps  on  Asian  plains, 
Or  wending  westward  past  the  Caucasus, 
Our  fathers  raised  to  rest  in.     Close  they  swarm 
About  two  taller  tents,  and  viewed  afar 
Might  seem  a  dark -robed  crowd  in  penitence 
That  silent  kneel ;  but  come  now  in  their  midst 
And  watch  a  busy,  bright-eyed,  sportive  life ! 
Tall  maidens  bend  to  feed  the  tethered  goat, 
The  ragged  kirtle  fringing  at  the  knee 
Above  the  living  curves,  the  shoulder's  smoothness 
Parting  the  torrent  strong  of  ebon  hair. 
Women  with  babes,  the  wild  and  neutral  glance 
Swayed  now  to  sweet  desire  of  mothers'  eyes, 
Bock  their  strong  cradling  arms   and   chant   low 

strains 

Taught  by  monotonous  and  soothing  winds 
That  fall  at  night-time  on  the  dozing  ear. 
The  crones  plait  reeds,  or  shred  the  vivid  herbs 
Into  the  caldron  :  tiny  urchins  crawl 
Or  sit  and  gurgle  forth  their  infant  joy. 
Lads  lying  sphinx-like  with  uplifted  breast 
Propped  on  their  elbows,  their  black  manes  tossed 

back, 

Fling  up  the  coin  and  watch  its  fatal  fall, 
Dispute  and  scramble,  run  and  wrestle  fierce, 
Then  fall  to  play  and  fellowship  again ; 
Or  in  a  thieving  swarm  they  run  to  plague 


198  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  grandsires,  who  return  with  rabbits  slung, 
And  with  the  mules  fruit-laden  from  the  fields. 
Some  striplings  choose  the  smooth  stones  from  the 

brook 

To  serve  the  slingers,  cut  the  twigs  for  snares, 
Or  trim  the  hazel-wands,  or  at  the  bark 
Of  some  exploring  dog  they  dart  away 
With  swift  precision  towards  a  moving  speck. 
These  are  the  brood  of  Zarca's  Gypsy  tribe ; 
Most  like  an  earth-born  race  bred  by  the  Sun 
On  some  rich  tropic  soil,  the  father's  light 
Flashing  in  coal  black  eyes,  the  mother's  blood 
With  bounteous  elements  feeding  their  young  limbs. 
The  stalwart  men  and  youths  are  at  the  wars 
Following  their  chief,  all  save  a  trusty  band 
Who  keep  strict  watch  along  the  northern  heights. 

But  see,  upon  a  pleasant  spot  removed 

From  the  camp's  hubbub,  where  the  thicket  strong 

Of  huge-eared  cactus  makes  a  bordering  curve 

And  casts  a  shadow,  lies  a  sleeping  man 

With  Spanish  hat  screening  his  upturned  face, 

His  doublet  loose,  his  right  arm  backward  flung, 

His  left  caressing  close  the  long-necked  lute 

That  seems  to  sleep  too,  leaning  tow'rds  its  lord. 

He  draws  deep  breath  secure  but  not  unwatched. 

Moving  a-tiptoe,  silent  as  the  elves, 

As  mischievous  too,  trip  three  barefooted  girls 

Not  opened  yet  to  womanhood,  — dark  flowers 

In  slim  long  buds :  some  paces  farther  off 

Gathers  a  little  white-teethed  shaggy  group, 

A  grinning  chorus  to  the  merry  play. 

The  tripping  girls  have  robbed  the  sleeping  man 

Of  all  his  ornaments.      Hita  is  decked 

With  an  embroidered  scarf  across  her  rags ; 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  {99 

Tralla,  with  thorns  for  pins,  sticks  two  rosettes 
Upon  her  threadbare  woollen ;  Hinda  now, 
Prettiest  and  boldest,  tucks  her  kirtle  up 
As  wallet  for  the  stolen  buttons,  —  then 
Bends  with  her  knife  to  cut  from  off  the  hat 
The  aigrette  and  the  feather ;  deftly  cuts, 
Yet  wakes  the  sleeper,  who  with  sudden  start 
Shakes  off  the  masking  hat  and  shows  the  face 
Of  Juan  :  Hinda  swift  as  thought  leaps  back, 
But  carries  off  the  feather  and  aigrette, 
And  leads  the  chorus  of  a  happy  laugh, 
Running  with  all  the  naked-footed  imps, 
Till  with  safe  survey  all  can  face  about 
And  watch  for  signs  of  stimulating  chase, 
While  Hinda  ties  long  grass  around  her  brow 
To  stick  the  feather  in  with  majesty. 
Juan  still  sits  contemplative,  with  looks 
Alternate  at  the  spoilers  and  their  work.  - 

JUAN. 

Ah,  you  marauding  kite,  —  my  feather  gone ! 

My  belt,  my  scarf,  my  buttons  and  rosettes! 

This  is  to  be  a  brother  of  Zincali ! 

The  fiery-blooded  children  of  the  Sun, — 

So  says  chief  Zarca,  —  children  of  the  Sun ! 

Ay,  ay,  the  black  and  stinging  flies  he  breeds 

To  plague  the  decent  body  of  mankind. 

Orpheus,  professor  of  the  gai  saber, 

Made  all  the  brutes  polite,  they  say,  by  dint  of  song. 

Pregnant,  — but  as  a  guide  in  daily  life 

Delusive.     For  if  song  and  music  cure 

The  barbarous  trick  of  thieving,  'tis  a  cure 

That  works  as  slowly  as  old  Doctor  Time 

In  curing  folly.      Why,  the  minxes  there 

Have  rhythm  in  their  toes,  and  music  rings 


200  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

As  readily  from  them  as  from  little  bells 
Swung  by  the  breeze.      Well,  I  will  try  the  physic. 

(He  touches  his  lute.} 
Hem !  taken  rightly,  any  single  thing 
The  Rabbis  say,  implies  all  other  things. 
A  knotty  task,  though,  the  unravelling 
Mcum  and  Tuum  from  a  saraband : 
It  needs  a  subtle  logic,  nay,  perhaps 
A  good  large  property,  to  see  the  thread. 

(He  touches  the  lute  again } 
There  's  more  of  odd  than  even  in  this  world, 
Else  pretty  sinners  would  not  be  let  off 
Sooner  than  ugly ;  for  if  honeycombs 
Are  to  be  got  by  stealing,  they  should  go 
Where  life  is  bitterest  on  the  tongue.     And  yet, — 
Because  this  minx  has  pretty  ways  I  wink 
At  all  her  tricks,  though  if  a  flat-faced  lass, 
With  eyes  askew,  were  half  as  bold  as  she, 
I  should  chastise  her  with  a  hazel  switch. 
I  'm  a  plucked  peacock,  —  even  my  voice  and  wit 
Without  a  tail !  —  why,  any  fool  detects 
The  absence  of  your  tail,  but  twenty  fools 
May  not  detect  the  presence  of  your  wit. 

(He  touches  his  lute  again.) 
Well,  I  must  coax  my  tail  back  cunningly, 
For  to  run  after  these  brown  lizards,  —  ah ! 
I  think  the  lizards  lift  their  ears  at  this. 

(As  he  thrums  his  lute  the  lads  and  girls 
gradually  approach:  he  touches  it  more 
briskly,  and  HlNDA,  advancing,  begins  to 
move  arms  and  legs  with  an  initiatory 
dancing  movement,  smiling  coaxingly  at 
JUAN.  He  suddenly  stops,  lays  down  his 
lute  and  folds  his  arms.) 
What,  you  expected  a  tune  to  dance  to,  eh  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  201 

HINDA,  HITA,  TRALLA,  AND  THE  REST  (clapping  their 
hands). 

Yes,  yes,  a  tune,  a  tune ! 

JUAN. 

But  that  is  what  you  cannot  have,  my  sweet 
brothers  and  sisters.  The  tunes  are  all  dead,  — 
dead  as  the  tunes  of  the  lark  when  you  have 
plucked  his  wings  off;  dead  as  the  song  of  the 
grasshopper  when  the  ass  has  swallowed  him.  I 
can  play  and  sing  no  more.  Hinda  has  killed  my 
tunes. 

(All  cry  out  in  consternation.  HINDA  gives  a 
wail  and  tries  to  examine  the  lute.  JUAN 
waves  her  off.) 

Understand,  Senora  Hinda,  that  the  tunes  are 
in  me;  they  are  not  in  the  lute  till  I  put  them 
there.  And  if  you  cross  my  humour,  I  shall  be  as 
tuneless  as  a  bag  of  wool.  If  the  tunes  are  to  be 
brought  to  life  again,  I  must  have  my  feather  back. 
(HlNDA  kisses  his  hands  and  feet  coaxingly.) 
No,  no!  not  a  note  will  come  for  coaxing.  The 
feather,  I  say,  the  feather ! 

(HlNDA  sorrowfully  takes  off  the  feather,  and 

gives  it  to  JUAN.) 
Ah,  now  let  us  see.     Perhaps  a  tune  will  come. 

(He  plays  a  measure,  and  the  three  girls  begin 

to  dance  ;  then  he  suddenly  stops.) 
No,  the  tune  will  not  come  :  it  wants  the  aigrette 
(pointing  to  it  on  HINDA'S  neck). 

(HlNDA,  with  rather  less  hesitation,  but  again 
sorrowfully,  takes  off  the  aigrette,  and  gives 
it  to  him.) 


202  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Ha!  (he  plays  again,  but,  after  rather  a  longer 
time,  again  stops. )  No,  no ;  't  is  the  buttons  are 
wanting,  Hinda,  the  buttons.  This  tune  feeds 
chiefly  on  buttons,  —  a  hungry  tune.  It  wants 
one,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six.  Good! 

(After  HINDA  has  given  up  the  buttons,  and 
JUAN  has  laid  them  down  one  by  one,  he 
begins  to  play  again,  going  on  longer  than 
before,  so  that  the  dancers  become  excited  by 
the  movement.  Then  he  stops.) 

Ah,  Hita,  it  is  the  belt,  and,  Tralla,  the  rosettes, 
—  both  are  wanting.  I  see  the  tune  will  not  go 
on  without  them. 

(HiTA  and  TRALLA  take  off  the  belt  and 
rosettes,  and  lay  them  down  quickly,  being 
fired  by  the  dancing,  and  eager  for  the 
music.  All  the  articles  lie  by  JUAN'S  side 
on  the  ground.) 

Good,  good,  my  docile  wild-cats !  Now  I  think 
the  tunes  are  all  alive  again.  Now  you  may  dance 
and  sing  too.  Hinda,  my  little  screamer,  lead 
off  with  the  song  I  taught  you,  and  let  us  see  if 
the  tune  will  go  right  on  from  beginning  to  end. 

(He  plays.  The  dance  begins  again,  HINDA 
singing.  All  the  other  boys  and  girls  join 
in  the  chorus,  and  all  at  last  dance  wildly.) 


SONG. 

All  things  journey :  sun  and  moon, 
Morning,  noon,  and  afternoon, 
Night  and  all  her  stars : 
'  Twixt  the  east  and  western  bars 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  203 

Round  they  journey, 
Come  and  go  ! 

We  go  with  them  ! 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 
Is  the  wild  Zincali's  home. 

Earth  is  good,  the  hillside  breaks 
By  the  asken  roots  and  makes 

Hungry  nostrils  glad : 
Then  we  run  till  we  are  mad, 

Like  the  horses. 
And  we  cry, 

None  shall  catch  us  ! 
Swift  winds  wing  us,  —  we  are  free,  — 
Drink  the  air,  —  Zincali  we  ! 

Falls  the  snow :  the  pine-branch  split, 
Call  the  fire  out,  see  it  Jlit, 

Through  the  dry  leaves  run, 
Spread  and  glow,  and  make  a  sun 

In  the  dark  tent : 
0  warm  dark  ! 

Warm  as  conies  ! 
Strong  fire  loves  us,  we  are  warm  ! 
Who  shall  work  Zincali  harm  ? 

Onward  journey :  fires  are  spent ; 
Sunward,  sunward  I  lift  the  tent, 

Run  before  the  rain, 
Through  the  pass,  along  the  plain, 

Hurry,  hurry, 

Lift  us,  wind  ! 

I/ike  the  horses. 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 
Is  the  wild  Zincali's  home. 


204  POEMS  Ol1  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

(When  the  dance  is  at  its  height,  HIND  A 
breaks  away  from  the  rest,  and  dances 
round  JUAN,  who  is  now  standing.  As  he 
turns  a  little  to  watch  her  movement,  some 
of  the  boys  skip  towards  the  feather, 
aigrette,  &c.,  snatch  them  up,  and  run 
away,  swiftly  followed  by  HITA,  TRALLA, 
and  the  rest.  HINDA,  as  she  turns  again, 
sees  them,  screams,  and  falls  in  her  whirl- 
ing ;  but  immediately  gets  up,  and  rushes 
after  them,  still  screaming  with  rage.) 

JUAN. 

Santiago !  these  imps  get  bolder.  Haha !  Sefiora 
Hinda,  this  finishes  your  lesson  in  ethics.  You 
have  seen  the  advantage  of  giving  up  stolen  goods. 
Now  you  see  the  ugliness  of  thieving  when  prac- 
tised by  others.  That  fable  of  mine  al?out  the 
tunes  was  excellently  devised.  I  feel  like  an 
ancient  sage  instructing  our  lisping  ancestors.  My 
memory  will  descend  as  the  Orpheus  of  Gypsies. 
But  I  must  prepare  a  rod  for  those  rascals.  I  '11 
bastinado  them  with  prickly  pears.  It  seems  to 
me  these  needles  will  have  a  sound  moral  teaching 
in  them. 

(  While  JUAN  takes  a  knife  from  his  belt,  and 
surveys  the  prickly  pear,  HINDA  returns.) 

JUAN. 

Pray,  Senora,  why  do  you  fume  ?  Did  you  want 
to  steal  my  ornaments  again  yourself  ? 

HINDA  (sobbing). 

No;  I  thought  you  would  give  them  me  back 
again. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  205 

JUAN. 

What,  did  you  want  the  tunes  to  die  again  ?  Do 
you  like  finery  better  than  dancing  ? 

HlNDA. 

Oh,  that  was  a  tale ;  I  shall  tell  tales  too,  when 
I  want  to  get  anything  I  can't  steal.  And  I  know 
what  I  will  do.  I  shall  tell  the  boys  I've  found 
some  little  foxes,  and  I  will  never  say  where  they 
are  till  they  give  me  back  the  feather ! 

(She  runs  off  again. ) 

JUAN. 

Hem !  the  disciple  seems  to  seize  the  mode 
sooner  than  the  matter.  Teaching  virtue  with 
this  prickly  pear  may  only  teach  the  youngsters  to 
use  a  new  weapon ;  as  your  teaching  orthodoxy 
with  fagots  may  only  bring  up  a  fashion  of  roast- 
ing. Dios!  my  remarks  grow  too  pregnant, —  my 
wits  get  a  plethora  by  solitary  feeding  on  the 
produce  of  my  own  wisdom. 

(As  he  puts  up  his  knife  again,  HINDA  comes 
running  back,  and  crying,  "  Our  Queen  ! 
our  Queen!"  JUAN  adjusts  hie  garments 
and  his  lute,  while  HlNDA  turns  to  meet 
FEDALMA,  who  wears  a  Moorish  dress,  with 
gold  ornaments,  her  Hack  hair  hanging 
round  her  in  plaits,  a  white  turban  on 
her  head,  a  dagger  by  her  side.  She  carries 
a  scarf  on  her  left  arm,  which  she  holds  up 
as  a  shade.) 

FED  ALMA  (patting  HINDA'S  head). 
How  now,  wild  one  ?     You  are  hot  and  panting. 
Go  to  my  tent,  and  help  Nouna  to  plait  reeds. 


206  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

(HiNDA  kisses  FEDALMA'S  hand,  and  runs  off. 
FEDALMA  advances  towards  JUAN,  who 
kneels  to  take  up  the  edge  of  her  cymar, 
and  kisses  it) 

JUAN. 

How  is  it  with  you,  lady  ?    You  look  sad. 

FEDALMA. 

Oh,  I  am  sick  at  heart.     The  eye  of  day, 
The  insistent  summer  sun,  seems  pitiless, 
Shining  in  all  the  barren  crevices 
Of  weary  life,  leaving  no  shade,  no  dark, 
Where  I  may  dream  that  hidden  waters  lie ; 
As  pitiless  as  to  some  shipwrecked  man, 
Who,  gazing  from  his  narrow  shoal  of  sand 
On  the  wide  unspecked  round  of  blue  and  blue, 
Sees  that  full  light  is  errorless  despair. 
The  insects'  hum  that  slurs  the  silent  dark 
Startles,  and  seems  to  cheat  me,  as  the  tread 
Of  coming  footsteps  cheats  the  midnight  watcher 
Who  holds   her  heart   and   waits   to  hear   them 

pause, 

And  hears  them  never  pause,  but  pass  and  die. 
Music  sweeps  by  me  as  a  messenger 
Carrying  a  message  that  is  not  for  me. 
The  very  sameness  of  the  hills  and  sky 
Is  obduracy,  and  the  lingering  hours 
Wait  round  me  dumbly,  like  superfluous  slaves, 
Of  whom  I  want  naught  but  the  secret  news 
They  are  forbid  to  tell.     And,  Juan,  you  — 
You,  too,  are  cruel  —  would  be  over-wise 
In   judging    your   friend's  needs,   and   choose   to 

hide 
Something  I  crave  to  know. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  207 

JUAN. 

I,  lady? 

FEDALMA. 

You. 
JUAN. 

I  never  had  the  virtue  to  hide  aught, 

Save  what  a  man  is  whipped  for  publishing. 

I  'm  no  more  reticent  than  the  voluble  air, — 

Dote  on  disclosure, —  never  could  contain 

The  latter  half  of  all  my  sentences, 

But  for  the  need  to  utter  the  beginning. 

My  lust  to  tell  is  so  importunate 

That  it  abridges  every  other  vice, 

And  makes  me  temperate  for  want  of  time. 

I  dull  sensation  in  the  haste  to  say 

'T  is  this  or  that,  and  choke  report  with  surmise. 

Judge,  then,  dear  lady,  if  I  could  be  mute 

When  but  a  glance  of  yours  had  bid  me  speak. 

FEDALMA. 

Nay,  sing  such  falsities !  —  you  mock  me  worse 
By  speech  that  gravely  seems  to  ask  belief. 
You  are  but  babbling  in  a  part  you  play 
To  please   my  father.      Oh,  't  is  well  meant,  say 

you,— 
Pity  for  woman's  weakness.     Take  my  thanks. 

JUAN. 

Thanks  angrily  bestowed  are  red-hot  coin 
Burning  your  servant's  palm. 

FEDALMA. 

Deny  it  not, 
You  know  how  many  leagues  this  camp  of  ours 


208  POEMS  01  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Lies  from  Bedmar, —  what  mountains  lie  between, — 

Could  tell  me  if  you  would  about  the  Duke, — 

That  he  is  comforted,  sees  how  he  gains 

By  losing  the  Zincala,  finds  how  slight 

The  thread  Fedalma  made  in  that  rich  web, 

A  Spanish  noble's  life.     No,  that  is  false! 

He  never  would  think  lightly  of  our  love. 

Some  evil  has  befallen  him,  —  he  's  slain, — 

Has  sought  for  danger  and  has  beckoned  death 

Because  I  made  all  life  seem  treachery. 

Tell  me  the  worst,  —  be  merciful, —  no  worst, 

Against  the  hideous  painting  of  my  fear, 

.Would  not  show  like  a  better. 

JUAN. 

If  I  speak, 

Will  you  believe  your  slave  ?    For  truth  is  scant ; 
And  where  the  appetite  is  still  to  hear 
And  not  believe,  falsehood  would  stint  it  less. 
How  say  you  ?     Does  your  hunger's  fancy  choose 
The  meagre  fact  ? 

FEDALMA  (seating  herself  on  the  ground}. 

Yes,  yes,  the  truth,  dear  Juan. 
Sit  now,  and  tell  me  all. 

JUAN. 

That  all  is  naught. 
I  can  unleash  my  fancy  if  you  wish 
And  hunt  for  phantoms :  shoot  an  airy  guess 
And  bring  down  airy  likelihood, —  some  lie 
Masked  cunningly  to  look  like  royal  truth 
And  cheat  the  shooter,  while  King  Fact  goes  free, 
Or  else  some  image  of  reality 
That  doubt  will  handle  and  reject  as  false. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  209 

Ask  for  conjecture, —  I  can  thread  the  sky 
Like  any  swallow,  but,  if  you  insist, 
On  knowledge  that  would  guide  a  pair  of  feet 
Eight  to  Bedm£r,  across  the  Moorish  bounds, 
A  mule  that  dreams  of  stumbling  over  stones 
Is  better  stored. 

FEDALMA. 

And  you  have  gathered  naught 
About  the  border  wars  ?     No  news,  no  hint 
Of  any  rumours  that  concern  the  Duke, — 
Rumours  kept  from  me  by  my  father  ? 

JUAN. 

None. 

Your  father  trusts  no  secrets  to  the  echoes. 
Of  late  his  movements  have  been  hid  from  all 
Save  those  few  hundred  picked  Zincali  breasts 
He  carries  with  him.     Think  you  he  's  a  man 
To  let  his  projects  slip  from  out  his  belt, 
Then  whisper  him  who  haps  to  find  them  strayed 
To  be  so  kind  as  keep  his  counsel  well  ? 
Why,  if  he  found  me  knowing  aught  too  much, 
He  would  straight  gag  or  strangle  me,  and  say, 
"  Poor  hound !  it  was  a  pity  that  his  bark 
Could  chance  to   mar   my    plans :   he   loved   my 

daughter, — 

The  idle  hound  had  naught  to  do  but  love, 
So  followed  to  the  battle  and  got  crushed. " 

FEDALMA  (holding  out  her  hand,  which  JUAN  kisses), 

Good  Juan,  I  could  have  no  nobler  friend. 
You  'd  ope  your  veins  and  let  your  life-blood  out 
To  save  another's  pain,  yet  hide  the  deed 
With  jesting,  —  say,  't  was  merest  accident, 

VOL.    I.  —  14 


2io  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

A  sportive  scratch  that  went  by  chance  too  deep, — 
And  die  content  with  men's  slight  thought  of  you, 
Finding  your  glory  in  another's  joy. 

JUAN. 

Dub  not  my  likings  virtues,  lest  they  get 
A  drug-like  taste,  and  breed  a  nausea. 
Honey  's  not  sweet,  commended  as  cathartic. 
Such  names  are  parchment  labels  upon  gems 
Hiding  their  colour.     What  is  lovely  seen 
Priced  in  a  tariff?  —  lapis  lazuli, 
Such  bulk,  so  many  drachmas :  amethysts 
Quoted  at  so  much  ;  sapphires  higher  still. 
The  stone  like  solid  heaven  in  its  blueness 
Is  what  I  care  for,  not  its  name  or  price. 
So,  if  I  live  or  die  to  serve  my  friend 
'T  is  for  my  love  —  't  is  for  my  friend  alone, 
And  not  for  any  rate  that  friendship  bears 
In  heaven  or  on  earth.     Nay,  I  romance, — 
I  talk  of  Roland  and  the  ancient  peers. 
In  me  't  is  hardly  friendship,  only  lack 
Of  a  substantial  self  that  holds  a  weight ; 
So  I  kiss  larger  things  and  roll  with  them, 

FEDALMA. 

Nay,  you  will  never  hide  your  soul  from  me; 
I've  seen  the  jewel's  flash,  and  know  't  is  there, 
Muffle  it  as  you  will.     That  foam-like  talk 
Will  not  wash  out  a  fear  which  blots  the  good 
Your  presence  brings  me.     Oft  I'm  pierced  afresh 
Through  all  the  pressure  of  my  selfish  griefs 
By  thought  of  you.     It  was  a  rash  resolve 
Made  you  disclose  yourself  when  you  kept  watch 
About  the  terrace  wall :  —  your  pity  leaped 
Seeing  my  ills  alone  and  not  your  loss, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  21 » 

Self-doomed  to  exile.     Juan,  you  must  repent. 
'T  is  n9t  in  nature  that  resolve,  which  feeds 
On  strenuous  actions,  should  not  pine  and  die 
In  these  long  days  of  empty  listlessness. 

JUAN. 

Eepent  ?    Not  I.     Eepentance  is  the  weight 

Of  indigested  meals  eat  yesterday. 

'T  is  for  large  animals  that  gorge  on  prey, 

Not  for  a  honey -sipping  butterfly. 

I  am  a  thing  of  rhythm  and  redondillas, — 

The  momentary  rainbow  on  the  spray 

Made  by  the  thundering  torrent  of  men's  lives: 

No  matter  whether  I  am  here  or  there ; 

I  still  catch  sunbeams.     And  in  Africa, 

Where  melons  and  all  fruits,  they  say,  grow  large, 

Fables  are  real,  and  the  apes  polite, 

A  poet,  too,  may  prosper  past  belief : 

I  shall  grow  epic,  like  the  Florentine, 

And  sing  the  founding  of  our  infant  state, 

Sing  the  Zincalo's  Carthage. 

FEDALMA. 

Africa ! 

Would  we  were  there !     Under  another  heaven, 
In  lands  where  neither  love  nor  memory 
Can  plant  a  selfish  hope, —  in  lands  so  far 
I  should  not  seem  to  see  the  outstretched  arms 
That  seek  me,  or  to  hear  the  voice  that  calls. 
I  should  feel  distance  only  and  despair ; 
So  rest  forever  from  the  thought  of  bliss, 
And  wear  my  weight  of  life's  great  chain  unstrug- 

gling- 
Juan,  if  I  could  know  he  would  forget, — • 


212  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Nay,  not  forget,  forgive  me, — be  content 

That  I  forsook  him  for  no  joy,  but  sorrow; 

For  sorrow  chosen  rather  than  a  joy 

That  destiny  made  base !     Then  he  would  taste 

No  bitterness  in  sweet,  sad  memory, 

And  I  should  live  unblemished  in  his  thought, 

Hallowed  like  her  who  dies  an  unwed  bride. 

Our  words  have  wings,  but  fly  not  where  we  would. 

Could  mine  but  reach  him,  Juan ! 

JUAN. 

Speak  but  the  wish, — 

My  feet  have  wings, —  I  '11  be  your  Mercury. 
I  fear  no  shadowed  perils  by  the  way. 
No  man  will  wear  the  sharpness  of  his  sword 
On  me.     Nay,  I  'm  a  herald  of  the  Muse, 
Sacred  for  Moors  and  Spaniards.     I  will  go, — 
Will  fetch  you  tidings  for  an  amulet. 
But  stretch  not  hope  too  strongly  towards  that  mark 
As  issue  of  my  wandering.     Given,  I  cross 
Safely  the  Moorish  border,  reach  Bedmar : 
Fresh  counsels  may  prevail  there,  and  the  Duke 
Being  absent  in  the  field,  I  may  be  trapped. 
Men  who  are  sour  at  missing  larger  game 
May  wing  a  chattering  sparrow  for  revenge. 
It  is  a  chance  no  further  worth  the  note 
Than  as  a  warning,  lest  you  feared  worse  ill 
If  my  return  were  stayed.     I  might  be  caged ; 
They  would  not  harm  me  else.     Untimely  death. 
The  red  auxiliary  of  the  skeleton, 
Has  too  much  work  on  hand  to  think  of  me ; 
Or,  if  he  cares  to  slay  me,  I  shall  fall 
Choked  with  a  grape-stone  for  economy. 
The  likelier  chance  is  that  I  go  and  come, 
Bringing  you  comfort  back. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  ±13 

FEDALMA  (starts  from  her  seat  and  walks  to  a  little 
distance,  standing  a  few  moments  with  her  lack 
towards  JUAN,  then  she  turns  round  quickly,  and 
goes  towards  him). 

No,  Juan,  no! 

Those  yearning  words  come  from  a  soul  infirm, 
Crying  and  struggling  at  the  pain  of  bonds 
Which  yet  it  would  not  loosen.     He  knows  all, — 
All  that  he  needs  to  know  :  I  said  farewell : 
I  stepped  across  the  cracking  earth  and  knew 
'T  would  yawn  behind  me.     I  must  walk  right  OIL 
No,  Juan,  I  will  win  naught  by  risking  you : 
The  possible  loss  would  poison  hope.     Besides, 
'T  were  treachery  in  me  :  my  father  wills 
That  we  —  all  here  —  should  rest  within  this  camp. 
If  I  can  never  live,  like  him,  on  faith 
In  glorious  morrows,  I  am  resolute. 
While  he  treads  painfully  with  stillest  step 
And  beady  brow,  pressed  'neath  the  weight  of  arms, 
Shall  I,  to  ease  my  fevered  restlessness, 
Raise  peevish  moans,  shattering  that  fragile  silence  ? 
No !     On  the  close-thronged  spaces  of  the  earth 
A  battle  rages :  Fate  has  carried  me 
'Mid  the  thick  arrows :  I  will  keep  my  stand, — 
Not  shrink  and  let  the  shaft  pass  by  my  breast 
To  pierce  another.     Oh,  't  is  written  large 
The  thing  I  have  to  do.     But  you,  dear  Juan, 
Eenounce,  endure,  are  brave,  unurged  by  aught 
Save  the  sweet  overflow  of  your  good  will 

(She  seats  herself  again.) 

JUAN. 

Nay,  I  endure  naught  worse  than  napping  sheep, 
When  nimble  birds  uproot  a  fleecy  lock 


2i4  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

To   line   their   nest  with.     See!  your  bondsman, 

Queen, 

The  minstrel  of  your  court,  is  featherless ; 
Deforms  your  presence  by  a  moulting  garb ; 
Shows  like  a  roadside  bush  culled  of  its  buds. 
Yet,  if  your  graciousness  will  not  disdain 
A  poor  plucked  songster, —  shall  he  sing  to  you? 
Some  lay  of  afternoons, —  some  ballad  strain 
Of  those  who  ached  once  but  are  sleeping  now 
Under  the  sun-warmed  flowers  ?     'T  will  cheat  the 

time. 

FED  ALMA. 

Thr.nks,  Juan,  later,  when  this  hour  is  passed. 
My  soul  is  clogged  with  self ;  it  could  not  float 
On  with  the  pleasing  sadness  of  your  song. 
Leave  me  in  this  green  spot,  but  come  again, — 
Come  with  the  lengthening  shadows. 

JUAN. 

Then  your  slave 
Will  go  to  chase  the  robbers.     Queen,  farewell ! 

FEDALMA. 
Best  friend,  my  well-spring  in  the  wilderness ! 

[While  Juan  sped  along  the  stream,  there  came 
From  the  dark  tents  a  ringing  joyous  shout 
That  thrilled  Fedalma  with  a  summons  grave 
Yet    welcome    too.      Straightway    she    rose    and 

stood, 

All  languor  banished,  with  a  soul  suspense 
Like  one  who  waits  high  presence,  listening. 
Was  it  a  message,  or  her  father's  self 
That  made  the  camp  so  glad  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  215 

It  was  himself! 

She  saw  him  now  advancing,  girt  with  arms 
That  seemed  like  idle  trophies  hung  for  show 
Beside  the  weight  and  fire  of  living  strength 
That  made   his  frame.     He  glanced  with   absent 

triumph, 

As  one  who  conquers  in  some  field  afar 
And  bears  off  unseen  spoil.     But  nearing  her, 
His  terrible  eyes  intense  sent  forth  new  rays, — 
A  sudden  sunshine  where  the  lightning  was 
'Twixt  meeting  dark.     All  tenderly  he  laid 
His  hand  upon  her  shoulder ;  tenderly, 
His  kiss  upon  her  brow.] 

ZARCA. 

My  royal  daughter ! 

FEDALMA. 
Father,  I  joy  to  see  your  safe  return. 

ZARCA. 

Nay,  I  but  stole  the  time,  as  hungry  men 
Steal  from  the  morrow's  meal,  made  a  forced  march 
Left  Hassan  as  my  watch-dog,  all  to  see 
My  daughter,  and  to  feed  her  famished  hope 
With  news  of  promise. 

FEDALMA. 

Is  the  task  achieved 
That  was  to  be  the  herald  of  our  flight  ? 

ZARCA. 

Not  outwardly,  but  to  my  inward  vision 
Things  are  achieved  when  they  are  well  begun. 
The  perfect  archer  calls  the  deer  his  own 


216  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

While  yet  the  shaft  is  whistling.     His  keen  eys 

Never  sees  failure,  sees  the  mark  alone. 

You  have  heard  naught,  then, — had  no  messenger? 

FEDALMA. 

I,  father  ?  no :  each  quiet  day  has  fled 

Like  the  same  moth,  returning  with  slow  wing, 

And  pausing  in  the  sunshine. 

ZARCA. 

It  is  well. 

You  shall  not  long  count  days  in  weariness. 
Ere  the  full  moon  has  waned  again  to  new, 
We  shall  reach  Almen'a  :  Berber  ships 
Will  take  us  for  their  freight,  and  we  shall  go 
With  plenteous  spoil,  not  stolen,  bravely  won 
By  service  done  on  Spaniards.     Do  you  shrink  ? 
Are  you  aught  less  than  a  Zincala  ? 

FED  ALMA. 

No; 
But  I  am  more.     The  Spaniards  fostered  me. 

ZARCA. 

They  stole  you  first,  and  reared  you  for  the  flames. 
I  found  you,  rescued  you,  that  you  might  live 
A  true  Zincala 's  life;  else  you  were  doomed. 
Your  bridal  bed  had  been  the  rack. 

FEDALMA  (in  a  low  tone). 

They  meant  — 
To  seize  me  ?  —  ere  he  came  ? 

ZARCA, 

Yes,  I  know  all. 
They  found  your  chamber  empty. 


TILE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  217 

FED  ALMA  (eagerly). 

Then  you  know, — 

(Checking  herself.) 

Father,  my  soul  would  be  less  laggard,  fed 
With  fuller  trust. 

ZARCA. 

My  daughter,  I  must  keep 
The  Arab's  secret.     Arabs  are  our  friends, 
Grappling  for  life  with  Christians  who  lay  waste 
Granada's  valleys,  and  with  devilish  hoofs 
Trample  the  young  green  corn,  with  devilish  play 
Fell   blossomed    trees,    and   tear   up    well-pruned 

vines  : 

Cruel  as  tigers  to  the  vanquished  brave, 
They  wring  out  gold  by  oaths  they  mean  to  break ; 
Take  pay  for  pity  and  are  pitiless ; 
Then  tinkle  bells  above  the  desolate  earth, 
And  praise  their  monstrous  gods,  supposed  to  love 
The  flattery  of  liars.      I  will  strike 
The    full-gorged    dragon.     You,   my   child,   must 

watch 

The  battle  with  a  heart,  not  fluttering 
But  duteous,  firm-weighted  by  resolve, 
Choosing  between  two  lives,  like  her  who  holds 
A  dagger  which  must  pierce  one  of  two  breasts, 
And  one  of  them  her  father's.     Nay,  you  divine,  — 
I  speak  not  closely,  but  in  parables ; 
Put  one  for  many. 

FED  ALMA  (collecting  herself,  and  looking  firmly  at 
ZARCA). 

Then  it  is  your  will 
That  I  ask  nothing  ? 


218  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

ZARCA. 

You  shall  know  enough 
To  trace  the  sequence  of  the  seed  and  flower. 
El  Zagal  trusts  me,  rates  my  counsel  high : 
He,  knowing  I  have  won  a  grant  of  lands 
Within  the  Berber's  realm,  wills  me  to  be 
The  tongue  of  his  good  cause  in  Africa, 
So  gives  us  furtherance  in  our  pilgrimage 
For  service  hoped,  as  well  as  service  done 
In  that  great  feat  of  which  I  am  the  eye, 
And  my  three  hundred  Gypsies  the  best  arm. 
More,  I  am  charged  by  other  noble  Moors 
With  messages  of  weight  to  Telemsan. 
Ha,  your  eye  flashes.     Are  you  glad  ? 

FEDALMA. 

Yes,  glad 
That  men  are  forced  to  honour  a  Zincalo. 

ZARCA. 
Oh,  fighting  for  dear  life  men  choose  their  swords 

*          O  O 

For  cutting  only,  not  for  ornament. 
What  naught  but  Nature  gives,   man  takes  per- 
force 

Where  she  bestows  it,  though  in  vilest  place. 
Can  he  compress  invention  out  of  pride, 
Make  heirship  do  the  work  of  muscle,  sail 
Towards  great  discoveries  with  a  pedigree  ? 
Sick  men  ask  cures,  and  Nature  serves  not  hers 
Daintily  as  a  feast.     A  blacksmith  once 
Founded  a  dynasty  and  raised  on  high 
The  leathern  apron  over  armies  spread 
Between  the  mountains  like  a  lake  of  steel 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  219 

FEDALMA  (bitterly). 

To  be  contemned,  then,  is  fair  augury. 
That  pledge  of  future  good  at  least  is  ours. 

ZAKCA. 

Let  men  contemn  us  :  't  is  such  blind  contempt 

That  leaves  the  winged  broods  to  thrive  in  warmth 

Unheeded,  till  they  fill  the  air  like  storms. 

So  we  shall  thrive, —  still  darkly  shall  draw  force 

Into  a  new  and  multitudinous  life 

That  likeness  fashions  to  community, 

Mother  divine  of  customs,  faith,  and  laws. 

'T  is  ripeness,  't  is  fame's  zenith  that  kills  hope. 

Huge  oaks  are  dying,  forests  yet  to  come 

Like  in  the  twigs  and  rotten-seeming  seeds. 

FEDALMA. 

And  our  Zincali  ?     Under  their  poor  husk 
Do  you  discern  such  seed  ?       You  said  our  band 
Was  the  best  arm  of  some  hard  enterprise ; 
They  give  out  sparks  of  virtue,  then,  and  show 
There's  metal  in  their  earth  ? 

ZARCA. 

Ay,  metal  fine 

In  my  brave  Gypsies.     Not  the  lithest  Moor 
Has  lither  limbs  for  scaling,  keener  eye 
To  mark  the  meaning  of  the  farthest  speck 
That  tells  of  change ;  and  they  are  disciplined 
By  faith  in  me,  to  such  obedience 
As  needs  no  spy.     My  sealers  and  my  scouts 
Are  to  the  Moorish  force  they're  leagued  withal 
As  bow-string  to  the  bow ;  while  I  their  chief 
Command  the  enterprise  and  guide  the  will 


220  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Of  Moorish  captains,  as  the  pilot  guides 
With  eye-instructed  hand  the  passive  helm. 
For  high  device  is  still  the  highest  force, 
And  he  who  holds  the  secret  of  the  wheel 
May  make  the  rivers  do  what  work  he  would. 
With  thoughts  impalpable  we  clutch  men's  souls, 
Weaken  the  joints  of  armies,  make  them  fly 
Like  dust  and  leaves  before  the  viewless  wind. 
Tell  me  what 's  mirrored  in  the  tiger's  heart, 
I'll  rule  that  too. 

FEDALMA  (wrought  to  a  glow  of  admiration}. 

O  my  imperial  father ! 

'T  is  where  there  breathes  a  mighty  soul  like  yours 
That  men's  contempt  is  of  good  augury. 

ZARCA  (seizing  both  FEDALMA'S  hands,  and  looking 
at  her  searchingly). 

And  you,  my  daughter,  are  you  not  the  child 

Of  the  Zincalo  ?     Does  not  his  great  hope 

Thrill  in  your  veins  like  shouts  of  victory  ? 

'T  is  a  vile  life  that  like  a  garden  pool 

Lies  stagnant  in  the  round  of  personal  loves ; 

That  has  no  ear  save  for  the  tickling  lute 

Set  to  small  measures,  —  deaf  to  all  the  beats 

Of  that  large  music  rolling  o'er  the  world : 

A  miserable,  petty,  low-roofed  life, 

That  knows  the  mighty  orbits  of  the  skies 

Through  naught  save  light  or  dark  in  its  own  cabin. 

The  very  brutes  will  feel  the  force  of  kind 

And  move  together,  gathering  a  new  soul, — 

The  soul  of  multitudes.      Say  now,  my  child, 

You  will  not  falter,  not  look  back  and  long 

For  unfledged  ease  in  some  soft  alien  nest. 

The  crane  with  outspread  wing  that  heads  the  file 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  221 

Pauses  not,  feels  no  backward  impulses : 

Behind  it  summer  was,  and  is  no  more ; 

Before  it  lies  the  summer  it  will  reach 

Or  fall  in  the  mid-ocean.      And  you  no  less 

Must  feel  the  force  sublime  of  growing  life. 

New  thoughts  are  urgent  as  the  growth  of  wings ; 

The  widening  vision  is  imperious 

As  higher  members  bursting  the  worm's  sheath. 

You  cannot  grovel  in  the  worm's  delights : 

You  must  take  winge'd  pleasures,  winge'd  pains. 

Are  you  not  steadfast  ?     Will  you  live  or  die 

For  aught  below  your  royal  heritage  ? 

To  him  who  holds  the  flickering  brief  torch 

That  lights  a  beacon  for  the  perishing, 

Aught  else  is  crime.     Are  you  a  false  Zincala  ? 

FEDALMA. 

Father,  my  soul  is  weak,  the  mist  of  tears 
Still  rises  to  my  eyes,  and  hides  the  goal 
"Which  to  your  undimmed  sight  is  clear  and  change- 
less. 

But  if  I  cannot  plant  resolve  on  hope 
It  will  stand  firm  on  certainty  of  woe. 
I  choose  the  ill  that  is  most  like  to  end 
With  my  poor  being.     Hopes  have  precarious  life. 
They  are  oft  blighted,  withered,  snapped  sheer  off 
In  vigorous  growth  and  turned  to  rottenness. 
But  faithfulness  can  feed  on  suffering, 
Arid  knows  no  disappointment.     Trust  in  me ! 
If  it  were  needed,  this  poor  trembling  hand 
Should  grasp  the  torch,  —  strive  not  to  let  it  fall 
Though  it  were  burning  down  close  to  my  flesh, 
No  beacon  lighted  yet :  through  the  damp  dark 
I  should  still  hear  the  cry  of  gasping  swimmers. 
Father,  I  will  be  true  ! 


222  POEMS  OF    GEORGE  ELIOT. 


I  trust  that  word. 
And,  for    your  sadness,  —  you    are    young,  —  the 

bruise 

Will  leave  no  mark.     The  worst  of  misery 
Is  when  a  nature  framed  for  noblest  things 
Condemns  itself  in  youth  to  petty  joys, 
And,  sore  athirst  for  air,  breathes  scanty  life 
Gasping  from  out  the  shallows.     You  are  saved 
From  such  poor  doubleness.     The  life  we  choose 
Breathes  high,  and  sees  a  full-arched  firmament. 
Our  deeds  shall  speak  like  rock-hewn  messages, 
Teaching  great  purpose  to  the  distant  time. 
Now  I  must  hasten  back.     I  shall  but  speak 
To  Nadar  of  the  order  he  must  keep 
In  setting  watch  and  victualling.     The  stars 
And  the  young  moon  must  see  me  at  my  post. 
Nay,  rest  you  here.     Farewell,  my  younger  self,  — 
Strong-hearted  daughter !     Shall  I  live  in  you 
When  the  earth  covers  me  ? 

FED  ALMA. 

My  father,  death 

Should  give  your  will  divineness,  make  it  strong 
With  the  beseech  ings  of  a  mighty  soul 
That  left  its  work  unfinished.     Kiss  me  now : 

(They  embrace,  and  she  adds  tremulously  as 

they  part,) 
And  when  you  see  fair  hair  be  pitiful. 

[Exit  ZARCA. 

(FEDALMA  seats  herself  on  the  bank,  leans  her 
head  forward,  and  covers  her  face  with  her 
drapery.  While  she  is  seated  thus,  HINDA 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  223 

comes  from  the  bank,  with  a  branch  of 
musk  roses  in  her  hand.  Seeing  FED  ALMA 
with  head  bent  and  covered,  she  pauses,  and 
begins  to  move  on  tiptoe.) 


HlNDA. 

Our  Queen !     Can  she  be  crying  ?     There  she  sits 
As  I  did  every  day  when  my  dog  Saad 
Sickened  and  yelled,  and  seemed  to  yell  so  loud 
After  we  'd  buried  him,  I  oped  his  grave. 

(She  comes  forward  on  tiptoe,  kneels  at  FE- 
D  ALMA'S/^,  and  embraces  them.  FED  ALMA 
uncovers  her  head.) 

FED  ALMA. 
Hinda !  what  is  it  ? 

HIND  A. 

Queen,  a  branch  of  roses,  — 
So  sweet,  you  '11  love  to  smell  them.     'T  was  the 

last. 

I  climbed  the  bank  to  get  it  before  Tralla, 
And  slipped  and  scratched  my  arm.     But  I  don't 

mind. 

You  love  the  roses,  —  so  do  I.     I  wish 
The  sky  would  rain  down  roses,  as  they  rain 
From  off  the  shaken  bush.     Why  will  it  not  ? 
Then  all  the  valley  would  be  pink  and  white 
And  soft  to  tread  on.     They  would  fall  as  light 
As  feathers,  smelling  sweet ;  and  it  would  be 
Like  sleeping  and  yet  waking,  all  at  once ! 
Over  the  sea,  Queen,  where  we  soon  shall  go, 
Will  it  rain  roses  ? 


224  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FED  ALMA. 

No,  my  prattler,  no  ! 
It  never  will  rain  roses  :  when  we  want 
To  have  more  roses  we  must  plant  more  trees. 
But  you  want  nothing,  little  one,  —  the  world 
Just  suits  you  as  it  suits  the  tawny  squirrels. 
Come,  you  want  nothing. 

HIND  A. 

Yes,  I  want  more  berries,  — 
Red  ones,  —  to  wind  about  my  neck  and  arms 
When  I  am  married,  —  on  my  ankles  too 
I  want  to  wind  red  berries,  and  on  my  head. 

FED  ALMA. 
Who  is  it  you  are  fond  of  ?     Tell  me,  now. 

HIND  A. 

O  Queen,  you  know  !     It  could  be  no  one  else 
But  Ismae'l.     He  catches  birds,  —  no  end  ! 
Knows  where  the  speckled  fish  are,  scales  the  rocks 
And  sings  and  dances  with  me  when  I  like. 
How  should  I  marry  and  not  marry  him  ? 

FED  ALMA. 

Should  you  have  loved  him,  had  he  been  a  Moor, 
Or  white  Castilian  ? 

HINDA  (starting  to  Tier  feet,  then  kneeling  again). 

Are  you  angry,  Queen  ? 

Say  why  you  will  think  shame  of  your  poor  Hinda  ? 
She  'd  sooner  be  a  rat  and  hang  on  thorns 
To  parch  until  the  wind  had  scattered  her, 
Than  be  an  outcast,  spit  at  by  her  tribe. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  225 

FFDALMA. 

Hinda,  I  know  you  are  a  good  Zincala. 
But  would  you  part  from  Ismaiil  ?  leave  him  now 
If  your  chief  bade  you,  —  said  it  was  for  good 
To  all  your  tribe  that  you  must  part  from  him  ? 

HINDA  ((jiving  a  sharp  cry). 
Ah,  will  he  say  so  ? 

FED  ALMA  (almost  fierce  in  her  earnestness1). 

Nay,  child,  answer  me. 
Could  you  leave  Ismae'l  ?  get  into  a  boat 
And  see  the  waters  widen  'twixt  you  two 
Till  all  was  water  and  you  saw  him  not, 
And  knew  that  you  would  never  see  him  more? 
If  't  was  your  chiefs  command,  and  if  he  said 
Your  tribe  would  all  be  slaughtered,  die  of  plague, 
Of  famine,  —  madly  drink  each  other's  blood  .... 

HINDA  (trembling). 

0  Queen,  if  it  is  so,  tell  Ismae'l. 

FED  ALMA. 
You  would  obey,  then  ?  part  from  him  forever  ? 

HINDA. 

How   could    we    live   else?     With    our    brethren 

lost  ?  — 

No  marriage  feast  ?     The  day  would  turn  to  dark. 
Zincali  cannot  live  without  their  tribe. 

1  must  obey  !     Poor  Ismael  —  poor  Hinda ! 
But  will  it  ever  be  so  cold  and  dark  ? 

Oh,  I  would  sit  upon  the  rocks  and  cry, 
And  cry  so  long  that  I  could  cry  no  more : 
Then  I  should  go  to  sleep. 

VOL.  I.  —  15 


226  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FEDALMA. 

No,  Hinda,  no ! 

Thou  never  shalt  be  called  to  part  from  him. 
I  will  have  berries  for  thee,  red  and  black, 
And  I  will  be  so  glad  to  see  thee  glad, 
That  earth  will  seem  to  hold  enough  of  joy 
To  outweigh  all  the  pangs  of  those  who  part. 
Be  comforted,  bright  eyes.     See,  I  will  tie 
These  roses  in  a  crown,  for  thee  to  wear. 

HINDA  (clapping  Tier  hands,  while  FEDALMA  puts  the 
roses  on  her  head). 

Oh,  I  'm  as  glad  as  many  little  foxes,  — 

I  will  find  Ismael,  and  tell  him  all      (She  runs  off) 

FEDALMA  (alone). 

She  has  the  strength  I  lack.     Within  her  world 

The  dial  has  not  stirred  since  first  she  woke : 

No  changing  light  has  made  the  shadows  die, 

And  taught  her  trusting  soul  sad  difference. 

For  her,  good,  right,  and  law  are  all  summed  up 

In  what  is  possible ;  life  is  one  web 

Where  love,  joy,  kindred,  and  obedience 

Lie  fast  and  even,  in  one  warp  and  woof 

With  thirst  and  drinking,  hunger,  food,  and  sleep. 

She  knows  no  struggles,  sees  no  double  path : 

Her  fate  is  freedom,  for  her  will  is  one 

With  the  Zincalo's  law,  the  only  law 

She  ever  knew.     For  me  —  oh,  I  have  fire  within, 

But  on  my  will  there  falls  the  chilling  snow 

Of  thoughts  that  come  as  subtly  as  soft  flakes, 

Yet  press  at  last  with  hard  and  icy  weight. 

I  could  be  firm,  could  give  myself  the  wrench 

And  walk  erect,  hiding  my  life-long  wound, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  227 

If  I  but  saw  the  fruit  of  all  my  pain 

With  that  strong  vision  which  commands  the  soul, 

And  makes  great  awe  the  monarch  of  desire. 

But  now  I  totter,  seeing  no  far  goal : 

I  tread  the  rocky  pass,  and  pause  and  grasp, 

Guided  by  flashes.     When  my  father  comes, 

And  breathes  into  my  soul  his  generous  hope,  — 

By  his  own  greatness  making  life  seem  great, 

As  the  clear  heavens  bring  sublimity, 

And  show  earth  larger,  spanned  by  that  blue  vast, — 

Kesolve  is  strong :  I  can  embrace  my  sorrow, 

Nor  nicely  weigh  the  fruit ;  possessed  with  need 

Solely  to  do  the  noblest,  though  it  failed,  — 

Though  lava  streamed  upon  my  breathing  deed 

And  buried  it  in  night  and  barrenness. 

But  soon  the  glow  dies  out,  the  warrior's  music 

That  vibrated  as  strength  through  all  my  limbs 

Is  heard  no  longer ;  over  the  wide  scene 

There  's  naught  but  chill  gray  silence,  or  the  hum 

And  fitful  discord  of  a  vulgar  world. 

Then  I  sink  helpless,  —  sink  into  the  arms 

Of  all  sweet  memories,  and  dream  of  bliss : 

See  looks  that  penetrate  like  tones ;  hear  tones 

That  flash  looks  with  them.     Even  now  I  feel 

Soft  airs  enwrap  me,  as  if  yearning  rays 

Of  some  far  presence  touched  me  with  their  warmth 

And  brought  a  tender  murmuring.  .  .  . 

[While  she  mused, 

A  figure  came  from  out  the  olive-trees 
That  bent  close-whispering  'twixt  the  parted  hills 
Beyond  the  crescent  of  thick  cactus  :  paused 
At  sight  of  her ;  then  slowly  forward  moved 
With  careful  step,  and  gently  said,  "  FEDALMA  ! " 
Fearing  lest  fancy  had  enslaved  her  sense, 


228  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

She  quivered,  rose,  but  turned  not.     Soon  again : 

"  FEDALMA,  it  is  SILVA  ! "     Then  she  turned. 

He,  with  bared  head  and  arms  entreating,  beamed 

Like  morning  on  her.     Vision  held  her  still 

One  moment,  then  with  gliding  motion  swift, 

Inevitable  as  the  melting  stream's, 

She  found  her  rest  within  his  circling  arms.] 

FEDALMA. 
0  love,  you  are  living,  and  believe  in  me ! 

DON  SILVA. 

Once  more  we  are  together.     Wishing  dies,  — 
Stifled  with  bliss. 

FEDALMA. 

You  did  not  hate  me,  then,  — 
Think  me  an  ingrate,  —  think  my  love  was  small 
That  I  forsook  you  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Dear,  I  trusted  you 

As  holy  men  trust  God.     You  could  do  naught 
That  was  not  pure  and  loving,  —  though  the  deed 
Might  pierce  me  unto  death.     You  had  less  trust, 
Since  you  suspected  mine.     'T  was  wicked  doubt. 

FEDALMA. 

Nay,  when  I  saw  you  hating  me  the  fault 
Seemed  in  my  lot,  —  the  poor  Zincala's,  —  her 
On  whom  you  lavished  all  your  wealth  of  love 
As  price  of  naught  but  sorrow.     Then  I  said,    ' 
"  'T  is  better  so.     He  will  be  happier ! " 
But  soon  that  thought,  struggling  to  be  a  hope, 
Would  end  in  tears. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  229 

DON  SILVA. 

It  was  a  cruel  thought. 
Happier !     True  misery  is  not  begun 
Until  I  cease  to  love  thee. 

FEDALMA. 

Silva ! 

DON  SILVA. 

Mine! 
{They  stand  a  moment  or  two  in  silence.) 

FEDALMA. 

I  thought  I  had  so  much  to  tell  you,  love,  — 
Long  eloquent  stories,  —  how  it  all  befell,  — 
The  solemn  message,  calling  me  away 
To  awful  spousals,  where  my  own  dead  joy, 
A  conscious  ghost,  looked  on  and  saw  me  wed. 

DON  SILVA. 

Oh  that  grave  speech  would  cumber  our  quick  souls 
Like  bells  that  waste  the  moments  with  their  loud- 
ness. 

FEDALMA. 

And  if  it  all  were  said,  't  would  end  in  this, 
That  I  still  loved  you  when  I  fled  away. 
'T  is  no  more  wisdom  than  the  little  birds 
Make  known  by  their  soft  twitter  when  they  feel 
Each  other's  heart  beat. 

DON  SILVA. 

All  the  deepest  things 

We  now  say  with  our  eyes  and  meeting  pulse : 
Our  voices  need  but  prattle. 


230  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FEDALMA. 

I  forget 
All  the  drear  days  of  thirst  in  this  one  draught. 

(Again  they  are  silent  for  a  few  moments.} 
But   tell   me  how   you   came  ?     Where   are   your 

guards  ? 

Is  there  no  risk  ?     And  now  I  look  at  you, 
This  garb  is  strange  .  .  . 

DON  SILVA. 

I  came  alone. 

FEDALMA. 

Alone  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes, — fled  in  secret.     There  was  no  way  else 
To  find  you  safely. 

FEDALMA  (letting  one  hand  fall  and  moving  a  little 
from  him  with  a  look  of  sudden  terror,  while  he 
clasps  her  more  firmly  by  the  other  arm). 

Silva ! 

DON  SILVA. 

It  is  naught. 

Enough  that  I  am  here.     Now  we  will  cling. 
What  power  shall  hinder  us  ?     You  left  me  once 
To  set  your  father  free.     That  task  is  done, 
And  you  are  mine  again.     I  have  braved  all 
That  I  might  find  you,  see  your  father,  win 
His  furtherance  in  bearing  you  away 
To  some  safe  refuge.     Are  we  not  betrothed  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  231 

FEDALMA. 

Oh,  I  am  trembling  'neath  the  rush  of  thoughts 
That  come  like  griefs  at  morning,  — look  at  me 
With  awful  faces,  from  the  vanishing  haze 
That  momently  had  hidden  them. 

DON  SILVA. 

What  thoughts  ? 
FEDALMA. 

Forgotten  burials.     There  lies  a  grave 
Between  this  visionary  present  and  the  past. 
Our  joy  is  dead,  and  only  smiles  on  us 
A  loving  shade  from  out  the  place  of  tombs. 

DON  SILVA. 

Fedalma,  your  love  faints,  else  aught  that  parts  us 
Would  seem  but  superstition.     Love  supreme 
Defies  all  sophistry, —  risks  avenging  fires. 
I  have  risked  all  things.     But  your  love  is  faint. 

FEDALMA  (retreating  a  little,  but  keeping  his  hand}. 

Silva,  if  now  between  us  came  a  sword, 
Severed  my  arm,  and  left  our  two  hands  clasped, 
This  poor  maimed   arm  would  feel  the  clasp   till 

death. 
What  parts  us  is  a  sword  .   .   . 

(ZARCA  has  been  advancing  in  the  back- 
ground. He  has  drawn  his  sword,  and 
now  thrusts  the  naked  blade  between  them. 
SILVA  lets  go  FEDALMA'S  hand,  and  grasps 
his  sword.  FEDALMA,  startled  at  first, 
stands  firmly,  as  if  prepared  to  interpose 
between  her  father  and  the  Duke.) 


232  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

ZAKCA. 

Ay,  't  is  a  sword 

That  parts  the  Spanish  noble  and  the  true  Zincala : 
A  sword  that  was  baptized  in  Christian  blood, 
When  once  a  band,  cloaking  with  Spanish  law 
Their  brutal  rapine,  would  have  butchered  us, 
And  then  outraged  our  women. 

(Resting  the  point  of  his  sword  on  the  ground.} 

My  lord  Duke, 

I  was  a  guest  within  your  fortress  once 
Against  my  will;  had  entertainment  too, — 
Much  like  a  galley  slave's.    Pray,  have  you  sought 
The  poor  Zincalo's  camp,  to  find  return 
For  that  Castilian  courtesy  ?  or  rather 
To  make  amends  for  all  our  prisoned  toil 
By  this  great  honour  of  your  unasked  presence  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Chief,    I  have  brought   no    scorn   to  meet   your 

scorn. 

I  came  because  love  urged  me, —  that  deep  love 
I  bear  to  her  whom  you  call  daughter,  —  her 
Whom  I  reclaim  as  my  betrothed  bride. 

ZAKCA. 

Doubtless  you  bring  for  final  argument 

Your  men-at-arms  who  will  escort  your  bride  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

I  came  alone.     The  only  force  I  bring 
Is  tenderness.     Nay,  I  will  trust  besides 
In  all  the  pleadings  of  a  father's  care 
To  wed  his  daughter  as  her  nurture  bids. 


;  Ay,   't  is  a  sword 
That  parts  the  Spanish  noble  and  the  true  Ziucala.' 


THE  SPANISH  G\TSY.  233 

And  for  your  tribe,  —  whatever  purposed  good 
Your  thoughts  may  cherish,  I  will  make  secure 
With  the  strong  surety  of  a  noble's  power: 
My  wealth  shall  be  your  treasury. 

ZARCA  (with  irony). 

My  thanks ! 

To  me  you  offer  liberal  price ;  for  her 
Your  love's  beseeching  will  be  force  supreme. 
She  will  go  with  you  as  a  willing  slave, 
Will  give  a  word  of  parting  to  her  father, 
Wave  farewells  to  her  tribe,  then  turn  and  say : 
"  Now,  my  lord,  I  am  nothing  but  your  bride ; 
I  am  quite  culled,  have  neither  root  nor  trunk, 
Now  wear  me  with  your  plume !  " 

DON  SILVA. 

Yours  is  the  wrong 

Feigning  in  me  one  thought  of  her  below 
The  highest  homage.     I  would  make  my  rank 
The  pedestal  of  her  worth;  a  noble's  sword, 
A  noble's  honour,  her  defence;  his  love 
The  life-long  sanctuary  of  her  womanhood. 

ZARCA. 

I  tell  you,  were  you  King  of  Aragon, 

And  won  my  daughter's  hand,  your  higher  rank 

Would  blacken  her  dishonour.      'T  were  excuse 

If  you  were  beggared,  homeless,  spit  upon, 

And  so  made  even  with  her  people's  lot; 

For  then  she  would  be  lured  by  want,  not  wealth, 

To  be  a  wife  amongst  an  alien  race 

To  whom  her  tribe  owes  curses. 


234  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 

Such  blind  hate 

Is  fit  for  beasts  of  prey,  but  not  for  men. 
My  hostile  acts  against  you  should  but  count 
As  ignorant  strokes  against  a  friend  unknown ; 
And  for  the  wrongs  inflicted  on  your  tribe 
By  Spanish  edicts  or  the  cruelty 
Of  Spanish  vassals,  am  I  criminal  ? 
Love  comes  to  cancel  all  ancestral  hate, 
Subdues  all  heritage,  proves  that  in  mankind 
Union  is  deeper  than  division. 

ZARCA. 

Ay, 

Such  love  is  common:  I  have  seen  it  oft, — 

Seen  many  women  rend  the  sacred  ties 

That  bind  them  in  high  fellowship  with  men, 

Making  them  mothers  of  a  people's  virtue ; 

Seen  them  so  levelled  to  a  handsome  steed 

That  yesterday  was  Moorish  property, 

To-day  is  Christian, —  wears  new-fashioned  gear, 

Neighs  to  new  feeders,  and  will  prance  alike 

Under  all  banners,  so  the  banner  be 

A  master's  who  caresses.     Such  light  change 

You  call  conversion ;  we  Zincali  call 

Conversion  infamy.     Our  people's  faith 

Is  faithfulness ;  not  the  rote-learned  belief 

That  we  are  heaven's  highest  favourites, 

But  the  resolve  that,  being  most  forsaken 

Among  the  sons  of  men,  we  will  be  true 

Each  to  the  other,  and  our  common  lot. 

You  Christians  burn  men  for  their  heresy : 

Our  vilest  heretic  is  that  Zincala 

Who,  choosing  ease,  forsakes  her  people's  woes. 

The  dowry  of  my  daughter  is  to  be 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  235 

Chief  woman  of  her  tribe,  and  rescue  it. 
A  bride  with  such  a  dowry  has  no  match 
Among  the  subjects  of  that  Catholic  Queen 
Who  would  have  Gypsies  swept  into  the  sea 
Or  else  would  have  them  gibbeted. 

DON  SILVA. 

And  you, 

Fedalma's  father, —  you  who  claim  the  dues 
Of  fatherhood, —  will  offer  up  her  youth 
To  mere  grim  idols  of  your  fantasy  ! 
Worse  than  all  Pagans,  with  no  oracle 
To  bid  you  murder,  no  sure  good  to  win, 
Will  sacrifice  your  daughter, —  to  no  god, 
But  to  a  hungry  fire  within  your  soul, 
Mad  hopes,  blind  hate,  that  like  possessing  fiends 
Shriek  at  a  name !     This  sweetest  virgin,  reared 
As  garden  flowers,  to  give  the  sordid  world 
Glimpses  of  perfectness,  you  snatch  and  thrust 
On  dreary  wilds ;  in  visions  mad,  proclaim 
Semiramis  of  Gypsy  wanderers  ; 
Doom,  with  a  broken  arrow  in  her  heart, 
To  wait  for  death  'mid  squalid  savages  : 
For  what  ?     You  would  be  saviour  of  your  tribe ; 
So  said  Fedalma's  letter;  rather  say, 
You  have  the  will  to  save  by  ruling  men, 
But  first  to  rule ;  and  with  that  flinty  will 
You  cut  your  way,  though  the  first  cut  you  give 
Gash  your  child's  bosom. 

(  While  SILVA  has  been  speaking,  with  grow- 
ing passion,  FED  ALMA  has  placed  herself 
between  him  and  her  father.) 

ZARCA  (with  calm  irony'). 

You  are  loud,  my  lord ! 
You  only  are  the  reasonable  man ; 


236  POEMS  OF  GEOIIGE  ELIOT. 

You  have  a  heart,  I  none.     Fedalma's  good 
Is  what  you  see,  you  care  for ;  while  I  seek 
No  good,  not  even  my  own,  urged  on  by  naught 
But  hellish  hunger,  which  must  still  be  fed 
Though  in  the  feeding  it  I  suffer  throes. 
Fume  at  your  own  opinion  as  you  will : 
I  speak  not  now  to  you,  but  to  my  daughter. 
If  she  still  calls  it  good  to  mate  with  you, 
To  be  a  Spanish  duchess,  kneel  at  court, 
And  hope  her  beauty  is  excuse  to  men 
When  women  whisper,  "  She  was  a  Zincala; " 
If  she  still  calls  it  good  to  take  a  lot 
That  measures  joy  for  her  as  she  forgets 
Her  kindred  and  her  kindred's  misery, 
Nor  feels  the  softness  of  her  downy  couch 
Marred  by  remembrance  that  she  once  forsook 
The  place  that  she  was  born  to, —  let  her  go! 
If  life  for  her  still  lies  in  alien  love, 
That  forces  her  to  shut  her  soul  from  truth 
As  men  in  shameful  pleasures  shut  out  day  j 
And  death,  for  her,  is  to  do  rarest  deeds, 
Which,  even  failing,  leave  new  faith  to  men, 
The  faith  in  human  hearts, —  then,  let  her  go! 
She  is  my  only  offspring ;  in  her  veins 
She  bears  the  blood  her  tribe  has  trusted  in ; 
Her  heritage  is  their  obedience, 
And  if  I  died,  she  might  still  lead  them  forth 
To  plant  the  race  her  lover  now  reviles 
Where  they  may  make  a  nation,  and  may  rise 
To  grander  manhood  than  his  race  can  show ; 
Then  live  a  goddess,  sanctifying  oaths, 
Enforcing  right,  and  ruling  consciences, 
By  law  deep-graven  in  exalting  deeds, 
Through  the  long  ages  of  her  people's  life. 
If  she  can  leave  that  lot  for  silken  shame, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  237 

For  kisses  honeyed  by  oblivion,  - 

The  bliss  of  drunkards  or  the  blank  of  fools,  — 

Then  let  her  go !     You  Spanish  Catholics, 

When  you  are  cruel,  base,  and  treacherous, 

For  ends  not  pious,  tender  gifts  to  God, 

And  for  men's  wounds  offer  much  oil  to  churches : 

We  have  no  altars  for  such  healing  gifts 

As  soothe  the  heavens  for  outrage  done  on  earth. 

We  have  no  priesthood  and  no  creed  to  teach 

That  the  Zincala  who  might  save  her  race 

And  yet  abandons  it,  may  cleanse  that  blot, 

And  mend  the  curse  her  life  has  been  to  men, 

By  saving  her  own  soul.     Her  one  base  choice 

Is  wrong  unchangeable,  is  poison  shed 

Where  men  must  drink  shed  by  her  poisoning  will. 

Now  choose,  Fedalma ! 

[But  her  choice  was  made. 
Slowly,  while  yet  her  father  spoke,  she  moved 
From  where  oblique  with  deprecating  arms 
She  stood  between  the  two  who  swayed  her  heart : 
Slowly  she  moved  to  choose  sublimer  pain ; 
Yearning,  yet  shrinking ;  wrought  upon  by  awe, 
Her  own  brief  life  seeming  a  little  isle 
Remote  through  visions  of  a  wider  world 
With  fates  close-crowded ;  firm  to  slay  her  joy 
That  cut  her  heart  with  smiles  beneath  the  knife, 
Like  a  sweet  babe  foredoomed  by  prophecy. 
She  stood  apart,  yet  near  her  father :  stood 
Hand  clutching  hand,  her  limbs  all  tense  with  will 
That  strove  against  her  anguish,  eyes  that  seemed 

a  soul 

Yearning  in  death  towards  him  she  loved  and  left. 
He  faced  her,  pale  with  passion  and  a  will 
Fierce  to  resist  whatever  might  seem  strong 


238  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  ask  him  to  submit:  he  saw  one  end, — 
He  must  be  conqueror ;  monarch  of  his  lot 
And  not  its  tributary.     But  she  spoke 
Tenderly,  pleadingly.] 

FEDALMA. 

My  lord,  farewell ! 

'T  was  well  we  met  once  more ;  now  we  must  part 
I  think  we  had  the  chief  of  all  love's  joys 
Only  in  knowing  that  we  loved  each  other. 

DON  SILVA. 

I  thought  we  loved  with  love  that  clings  till  death, 
Clings  as  brute  mothers  bleeding  to  their  young, 
Still  sheltering,  clutching  it,  though  it  were  dead  ; 
Taking  the  death-wound  sooner  than  divide. 
I  thought  we  loved  so. 

FEDALMA. 

Silva,  it  is  fate. 

Great  Fate  has  made  me  heiress  of  this  woe. 
You  must  forgive  Fedalma  all  her  debt : 
She  is  quite  beggared :  if  she  gave  herself, 
'T  would  be  a  self  corrupt  with  stifled  thoughts 
Of  a  forsaken  better.     It  is  truth 
My  father  speaks  :  the  Spanish  noble's  wife 
Would  be  a  false  Zincala.     I  will  bear 
The  heavy  trust  of  my  inheritance. 
See,  'twas  my  people's  life  that  throbbed  in  me; 
An  unknown  need  stirred  darkly  in  my  soul, 
And  made  me  restless  even  in  my  bliss. 
Oh,  all  my  bliss  was  in  our  love ;  but  now 
I  may  not  taste  it :  some  deep  energy 
Compels  me  to  choose  hunger.     Dear,  farewell ! 
I  must  go  with  my  people. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  239 

[She  stretched  forth 

Her  tender  hands,  that  oft  had  lain  in  his, 
The  hands  he  knew  so  well,  that  sight  of  them 
Seemed  like  their  touch.     But  he  stood    still  as 

death ; 

Locked  motionless  by  forces  opposite : 
His  frustrate  hopes  still  battled  with  despair ; 
His  will  was  prisoner  to  the  double  grasp 
Of  rage  and  hesitancy.     All  the  travelled  way 
Behind  him,  he  had  trodden  confident, 
Ruling  munificently  in  his  thought 
This  Gypsy  father.     Now  the  father  stood 
Present  and  silent  and  unchangeable 
As  a  celestial  portent.      Backward  lay 
The  traversed  road,  the  town's  forsaken  wall, 
The  risk,  the  daring ;  all  around  him  now 
Was  obstacle,  save  where  the  rising  flood 
Of  love  close  pressed  by  anguish  of  denial 
Was  sweeping  him  resistless  ;  save  where  she 
Gazing   stretched    forth   her    tender   hands,    that 

hurt 
Like  parting  kisses.     Then  at  last  he  spoke.] 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  I  can  never  take  those  hands  in  mine, 
Then  let  them  go  forever ! 

FEDALMA. 

It  must  be. 

We  may  not  make  this  world  a  paradise 
By  walking  it  together  hand  in  hand, 
With  eyes  that  meeting  feed  a  double  strength. 
We  must  be  only  joined  by  pains  divine 
Of  spirits  blent  in  mutual  memories. 
Silva,  our  joy  is  dead. 


240  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 

But  love  still  lives, 

And  has  a  safer  guard  in  wretchedness. 
Fedalma,  women  know  no  perfect  love  : 
Loving  the  strong,  they  can  forsake  the  strong ; 
Man  clings  because  the  being  whom  he  loves 
Is  weak  and  needs  him.     I  can  never  turn 
And  leave  you  to  your  difficult  wandering ; 
Know  that  you  tread  the  desert,  bear  the  storm. 
Shed  tears,  see  terrors,  faint  with  weariness, 
Yet  live  away  from  you.     I  should  feel  naught 
But  your  imagined  pains :  in  my  own  steps 
See  your  feet  bleeding,  taste  your  silent  tears, 
And  feel  no  presence  but  your  loneliness. 
No,  I  will  never  leave  you ! 

ZARCA. 

My  lord  Duke, 

I  have  been  patient,  given  room  for  speech, 
Bent  not  to  move  my  daughter  by  command, 
Save  that  of  her  own  faithfulness.     But  now, 
All  further  words  are  idle  elegies 
Unfitting  times  of  action.     You  are  here 
With  the  safe  conduct  of  that  trust  you  showed 
Coming  alone  to  the  Zincalo's  camp. 
I  would  fain  meet  all  trust  with  courtesy 
As  well  as  honour;  but  my  utmost  power 
Is  to  afford  you  Gypsy  guard  to-night 
"Within  the  tents  that  keep  the  northward  lines, 
And  for  the  morrow,  escort  on  your  way 
Back  to  the  Moorish  bounds. 

DON  SILVA. 

What  if  my  words 
Were  meant  for  deeds,  decisive  as  a  leap 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  241 

Into  the  Current  ?     It  is  not  my  wont 
To  utter  hollow  words,  and  speak  resolves 
Like  verses  banded  in  a  madrigal. 
I  spoke  in  action  first :  I  faced  all  risks 
To  find  Fedalma.      Action  speaks  again 
When  I,  a  Spanish  noble,  here  declare 
That  I  abide  with  her,  adopt  her  lot, 
Claiming  alone  fulfilment  of  her  vows 
As  my  betrothed  wife. 

FEDALMA  (wresting  herself  from,  him,  and  standing 
opposite  with  a  look  of  terror). 

Nay,  Silva,  nay! 

You   could   not  live   so;  spring   from   your   high 
place  .  .   . 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes,  I  have  said  it.     And  you,  chief,  are  bound 
By  her  strict  vows,  no  stronger  fealty 
Being  left  to  cancel  them. 

ZARCA. 

Strong  words,  my  lord1 

Sounds  fatal  as  the  hammer-strokes  that  shape 
The  glowing  metal :  they  must  shape  your  life. 
That  you  will  claim  my  daughter  is  to  say 
That  you  will  leave  your  Spanish  dignities, 
Your  home,  your  wealth,  your  people,  to  become 
A  true  Zincalo ;  share  your  wanderings, 
And  be  a  match  meet  for  my  daughter's  dower 
By  living  for  her  tribe  ;  take  the  deep  oath 
That  binds  you  to  us ;  rest  within  our  camp, 
Nevermore  hold  command  of  Spanish  men, 
And  keep  my  orders.     See,  my  lord,  you  lock 
A  many-winding  chain,  —  a  heavy  chain. 

VOL.  I.  —  16 


242  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 

I  have  but  one  resolve :  let  the  rest  follow. 
What  is  my  rank  ?     To-morrow  it  will  be  filled 
By  one  who  eyes  it  like  a  carrion  bird, 
Waiting  for  death.     I  shall  be  no  more  missed 
Than  waves  are  missed  that  leaping  on  the  rock 
Find  there  a  bed  and  rest.     Life's  a  vast  sea 
That  does  its  mighty  errand  without  fail, 
Panting  in  unchanged  strength  though  waves  are 

changing. 

And  I  have  said  it.     She  shall  be  my  people, 
And  where  she  gives  her  life  I  will  give  mine. 
She  shall  not  live  alone,  nor  die  alone. 
I  will  elect  my  deeds,  and  be  the  liege, 
Not  of  my  birth,  but  of  that  good  alone 
I  have  discerned  and  chosen. 

ZARCA. 

Our  poor  faith 

Allows  not  rightful  choice,  save  of  the  right 
Our  birth  has  made  for  us.     And  you,  my  lord, 
Can  still  defer  your  choice,  for  some  days'  space. 
I  march  perforce  to-night ;  you,  if  you  will, 
Under  Zincalo  guard,  can  keep  the  heights 
With  silent  Time  that  slowly  opes  the  scroll 
Of  change  inevitable  ;  taking  no  oath 
Till  my  accomplished  task  leaves  me  at  large 
To  see  you  keep  your  purpose  or  renounce  it. 

DON  SILVA. 

Chief,  do  I  hear  amiss,  or  does  your  speech 
Eing  with  a  doubleness  which  I  had  held 
Most  alien  to  you  ?     You  would  put  me  off, 
And  cloak  evasion  with  allowance  ?    No ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  243 

We  will  complete  our  pledges.     I  will  take 
That  oath  which  binds  not  me  alone,  but  you, 
To  join  my  life  forever  with  Fedalma's. 

ZARCA. 

I  wrangle  not,  —  time  presses.     But  the  oath 
Will  leave  you  that  same  post  upon  the  heights ; 
Pledged  to  remain  there  while  my  absence  lasts. 
You  are  agreed,  my  lord  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Agreed  to  all 

ZARCA. 

Then  I  will  give  the  summons  to  our  camp. 
We  will  adopt  you  as  a  brother  now, 
In  the  Zincalo's  fashion.  [Exit  ZARCA. 

(SiLVA  takes  FEDALMA'S  hands.) 

FEDALMA. 

O  my  lord! 

I  think  the  earth  is  trembling :  naught  is  firm- 
Some  terror  chills  me  with  a  shadowy  grasp. 
Am  I  about  to  wake,  or  do  you  breathe 
Here  in  this  valley  ?     Did  the  outer  air 
Vibrate  to  fatal  words,  or  did  they  shake 
Only  my  dreaming  soul  ?     You  a  Zincalo  ? 

DON  SILVA. 

Is  then  your  love  too  faint  to  raise  belief 
Up  to  that  height  ? 

FEDALMA. 

Silva,  had  you  but  said 
That  you  would  die,  —  that  were  an  easy  task 


244  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

For  you  who  oft  have  fronted  death  in  war. 
But  so  to  live  for  me, —  you,  used  to  rule, — 
You  could  not  breathe  the  air  my  father  breathes : 
His  presence  is  subjection.     Go,  my  lord! 
Fly,  while  there  yet  is  time.     Wait  not  to  speak 
I  will  declare  that  I  refused  your  love, — 
Would  keep  no  vows  to  you  .  .  . 

DON  SILVA. 

It  is  too  late. 

You  shall  not  thrust  me  back  to  seek  a  good 
Apart  from  you.     And  what  good  ?     Why,  to  face 
Your  absence, —  all  the  want  that  drove  me  forth 
To  work  the  will  of  a  more  tyrannous  friend 
Than  any  uncowled  father.     Life  at  least 
Gives  choice  of  ills ;  forces  me  to  defy, 
But  shall  not  force  me  to  a  weak  defiance. 
The  power  that  threatened  you,  to  master  me, 
That  scorches  like  a  cave-hid  dragon's  breath, 
Sure  of  its  victory  in  spite  of  hate, 
Is  what  I  last  will  bend  to, —  most  defy. 
Your  father  has  a  chieftain's  ends,  befitting 
A  soldier's  eye  and  arm :  were  he  as  strong 
As  the  Moors'  prophet,  yet  the  prophet  too 
Had  younger  captains  of  illustrious  fame 
Among  the  infidels.      Let  him  command, 
For  when  your  father  speaks,  I  shall  hear  you. 
Life  were  no  gain  if  you  were  lost  to  me : 
I  would  straight  go  and  seek  the  Moorish  walls, 
Challenge  their  bravest,  and  embrace  swift  death. 
The  Glorious  Mother  and  her  pitying  Son 
Are  not  Inquisitors,  else  their  heaven  were  hell. 
Perhaps  they  hate  their  cruel  worshippers, 
And  let  them  feed  on  lies.      I'll  rather  trust 
They  love  you  and  have  sent  me  to  defend  you. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  245 

FEDALMA. 

I  made  my  creed  so,  just  to  suit  my  mood 
And  smooth  all  hardship,  till  my  father  came 
And  taught  my  soul  by  ruling  it.      Since  then 
I  cannot  weave  a  dreaming  happy  creed 
Where  our  love's  happiness  is  not  accursed. 
My  father  shook  my  soul  awake.      And  you, — 
What  the  Zincala  may  not  quit  for  you, 
I  cannot  joy  that  you  should  quit  for  her. 

DON  SILVA. 

Oh,  Spanish  men  are  not  a  petty  band 
Where  one  deserter  makes  a  fatal  breach. 
Men,  even  nobles,  are  more  plenteous 
Than  steeds  and  armour ;  and  my  weapons  left 
Will  find  new  hands  to  wield  them.     Arrogance 
Makes  itself  champion  of  mankind,  and  holds 
God's  purpose  maimed  for  one  hidalgo  lost. 
See  where  your  father  comes  and  brings  a  crowd 
Of  witnesses  to  hear  my  oath  of  love; 
The  low  red  sun  glows  on  them  like  a  fire ; 
This  seems  a  valley  in  some  strange  new  world, 
Where  we  have  found  each  other,  my  Fedalma. 


END  OP  VOL,  L 


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